If the 93 degree reading on my car thermostat tells me anything, it’s that winter is over and it’s rosé season.
A few months ago, we analyzed what some wine bottles would say to us if they could talk back. Well, hibernation is over, and some bottles of rosé-gold have awoken from their slumber to join the party.
These pink beauties are sassier than ever — and they’re prepared to drag anyone away who interferes with them having the perfect summer.
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I’m looking at you Miami.
Make way for the princess of all the vino.
Who needs sunblock when you have rosé???
Ice cold.
Fueling the Hamptons since 2014.
Like I’m going to brunch anywhere else.
It’s my rosé, I can cry if I want to.
Standards are a good thing.
What do you mean we can’t go to happy hour?
Rolling deep for some Eggs Benedict.
As long as Chick-fil-A isn’t serving breakfast it’s fine.
Seriously. I cannot even imagine how to even.
I didn’t think so.
Make it rain in good choices.
50 likes later.
Nobody can drag this moment down.
Damn straight.
This boozy-umbrella can’t bring me down.
Put. The. Phone. Down.
Throw me in the cooler, I don’t care. Let’s GO.
And no, you can’t sit with us.
Can’t stop, won’t stop.
Put down that clutch, you don’t need it.
Move over, Chardonnay.
No sugar bombs here.
Take a break from the air conditioning.
