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I know. I can't even look at you all, I'm so embarrassed.

It all sounds very old-world to me. Very 18th century Russia.

And I live in New York City, circa now. I think it's romantic if someone offers me a seat on the subway.

That is romantic.

We are just starved for real romance, and that is the sad truth.

I'm not starved. Smith is in L.A. for the week...and he calls me every night before he goes to sleep.

Phone sex doesn't count.

I'm drinking a glass of wine while we do it.

I want to hear more about the romance. What else did he do?

There was one more thing. But if I tell you, it'll be the "ick" heard around the world.

It will not.

You know the song he wrote for me?

Yeah, ick.

It had a name.

The woman with eyes that....Sparkle.

What's French for "ick"? "Eek."

And I swear, while he was playing it, I floated up out of my body...and I was on the ceiling, looking down at myself, thinking: "Come on."

He was just expressing genuine emotion in an old-fashioned way.

But it's not genuine, it's pure show. I can't stand all that artificial hoo-hah. That's why I proposed to Steve over $3 beers.

You proposed?

You proposed marriage?

Okay. Everybody, stop. It's not a big deal, I am not engaged...I'm not doing the big circus wedding. There will be no white dress or bridesmaids, or posed pictures. I hate all that shit.

That's your choice. Every bride has to find her own style.

When is it gonna be?

As soon as I find some place that doesn't make me hurl. It's just going to be a simple, nothing thing. I don't even care about the wedding. I just want to be with Steve.

This is exactly what I don't want. No tears.

Oh, my God.

I can't believe it.

That's it, you're all freaking me out. Samantha, I expected more from you.