I’m watching Sweet Home Alabama, and even when I saw it in the theater, when he takes her into Tiffany and tells her to “pick one” engagement ring, I got anxious. That’s too many choices, I’ll be here for 14 hours. YOU pick one. I’m-a go get a pretzel.
(And by “YOU pick one,” I mean pick one at Kohl’s and use the rest of the money to take us to Italy.)
(OK, fine, not really Kohl’s — I’m not THAT bad. But he’d know which friends to call.)
I’m listening to Michelle Obama’s audiobook, and she’s describing how Barack proposed to her in a restaurant. The server brought the dessert plate and lifted the fancy lid, and there was “a dark velvet box where the chocolate cake was supposed to be.”
And, OK, fine — yay, congrats, mazel, etc.
But also, um… You’re still gonna bring my cake, right? It’s just backstage somewhere?
I feel like she really glossed over the important part.
Well, I mean…you could just…NOT.
As far as I know that’s still an option we gals have, no?
(Seen in an interview with style bloggers.)
Show me all the Mother’s Day jewelry and flower ads you want, but I just realized the “perfect gift” for MY mom this year will be a gift certificate to my therapist.
Suck it, Pandora bracelets.
I feel like my well-rested face and disposable income convey this well enough, and yet I DO love me a shiny trinket…
(I should clarify that none of the parents I know personally look tired.)
I know I’m supposed to be taking the weekend off, but I didn’t think anyone would mind if I hopped on to say, “Jewelry that can make me come. The sex store gets me.” 
Friend: “What’s the slogan for that Jane Seymour open heart necklace? ‘If your heart is open, love will find a way in?'”
Me: “Yeahhh… I’m just gonna open my legs and hope for the best.”
I’m not sure what it says about me as a woman that I’m more impressed by “He went to the grocery store!” than I am by “He went to Jared!”
Don’t judge. My needs are simple.
Smug Singleton 