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.
Y’all, I may be dead inside and stuck in heinous rush hour traffic, but even *I* can’t keep this dipshit look off my face listenting to Michelle Obama recount her early courtship with Barack. JESUS, people, I’m not made of wood. This shit is cuter than a Hallmark movie about kittens wearing tiny sweaters. COME ON. #IAMBECOMING
I’m doing this “creative lady mixer” thing tonight, kind of a summit of artists, writers, designers, etc.I mentioned before that I’d been debating whether to introduce myself as the writer of this blog because…I don’t want to say I’m “ashamed” of it, but maybe a little embarrassed? Even more so now that my most recent post compared my vagina to a log flume.
But I don’t know, getting ready this morning, I think there’s something kind of hilarious about “vagina as log flume” coming from a nondescript Feyschanel blonde wearing a demure Michelle-Obama-lookin’ Lands’ End sundress, with a camisole under it to corral errant cleavage. I’d like to think you wouldn’t look at me and immediately assume I’m the creator of “my vagina is a log flume.” (Worst John Mayer B-side ever.)
“I write a blog about women’s issues.” That includes sex. (And log flumes, apparently.) If the real writers don’t like it, it’s not the right group. I have enough friends, fuck it. Let’s do this.