Whenever I become formally engaged to the man of my dreams, instead of calling him my fiancé, I will call him my beyoncé.

Don’t get me wrong. Super happy about that. It’s about time, right? But I’m on hour 6 of my like 15 hour drive, so I’m obvi not connected to the internet/news. I knew the vote was tonight but hadn’t heard the outcome. I get a happy text from oregony, “Gay marriage in NY. Martinis. Life is good.” Life is good, sir. And definitely Martinis. Shed happy tear. Well, of course, I’m listening to Reba and take a wild guess about which song was playing. Yup, He Wants To Get Married. Aw, how sweet and coincidental. So I sing along. “He’s a great guy. Blah blah. Handsome. Loyal. Blah blah. He wants to get married. He wants to get maaarried! He wants to get maaaaaaaarrrried!!!” Yeah! You better sing it, Reba. “But not to meeeee.” Oh yeah… Well fuck.