Are you going to marry me, or what?

A few days ago, Tom and I celebrated our one-year "day-we-got-engaged" commemoration. Cheesy thing to celebrate? Sure. Really, I was just looking for an excuse to have breakfast at Kneaders (a truly heavenly meal indeed), and this one seemed as good as any.

However I enjoy thinking back on that night, because it was so Tom-Thomas-esque. We cheerfully plopped ourselves down in a field not far from his house for a midnight picnic that we'd been planning for some time. Naturally, he had purchased all of his "setting the mood" supplies from D.I. (candle, fake flowers, stuffed animal pig and two ducks...). He brought along my absolute favorite Entenmann donuts (which, I haven't had a bite of one since, unfortunately), strawberries, and milk to wash it all down. And then, after we both had made one-too-many failed attempts to be serious, he blurted: "Are you going to marry me, or what?"

Then I said yes and that was that. And, as usual, a little while later we had to call it a night because my bladder was calling.