It had never even remotely occurred me to even think about the possibility of having a gay President

And now.

And now.

And now. Here’s Pete Buttigieg—a happily, proudly, openly married gay man—not only running for the Democratic Presidential nomination, but consistently LEADING in the polls. And being so bulletproof-respectable that even his most cretinous opponents have instinctively known to keep their faggot insults choked deep in their rotting guts.

His rally today in my beloved hometown was more fire-up-the-followers than parse-the-policies, and his followers—gay and straight, young and old, single and grouped—clapped and cheered and celebrated everything he said.

I was standing by my mom at the rally. And I hugged her tight at one point. Because I was too choked up to do anything else.

And I was so, so happy about it.

Nineteen—NINETEEN!—Democratic Presidential nominees are in my home town right now

They're here to hold individual rallies and then a civilized, intelligent, productive, meaningful debate at our US Cellular Center this afternoon. I just walked through our beautiful downtown from the Pete Buttegieg rally to the street outside the convention center where the supporters of each candidate are joyfully chanting and cheering and holding signs and high-fiving everyone who walks by—including me in my BOOT EDGE EDGE shirt—and I’ve never been prouder to be a Cedar Rapidian and a progressive and a citizen of a country that DOES have hope and DOES have joy and DOES embrace civic responsibility and DOES FINALLY SEE A WAY OUT OF THIS HELLISH DOTARD NUCLEAR DUMPSTER FIRE.

Speaking of, the last time man-boy dotard stable genius brokeahontis held an emotionally needy rally here, I stood in this exact same spot and watched multiple people walk by me carrying Confederate and Nazi flags on their way in. I don’t even have to point out that there are none here today.

PETE RALLY! IN PETER RAPIDS!

Shoebiz.

Shaft of light. Slab of cat.

She Be-Bests. Duh.

Happy 116th birthday to Grandma Ester!

She could sew a set of matching pajamas for her grandchildren (with cellophane-wrapped quarters in the neatly turned besom pockets), roll out crisp sugar cookies so thin you could read through them, make homemade raspberry-apple jelly sealed under paraffin in individually labeled jars, braid a gorgeous—and perfectly symmetrical—rug out of scrap fabric, grow a garden of snapdragons in a spectrum of fascinating colors, and patiently, politely lose endless games of Clue with her matching-pajama-clad grandchildren—usually all in the same day. We had four wonderful, loving grandparents, but our grandfathers died when my sister and I were very young, Grandma Marie lived in Colorado, and Grandma Ester lived only two hours away—and ended up living with us as she started declining late in her long, remarkable life—so I knew her the best. We’ve finally outgrown our besom-pocket pajamas and spent our last cellophane-wrapped quarters, but we now have a fourth generation of her descendants reverently making paper-thin sugar cookies on her well-loved baking sheets.

Draw me like one of your French purrls

Yup

I feel like I’m on the pill for my Endless Fucking HeadacheTM

Plus the headache gives me the backup birth control of OUCH OUCH DON’T TOUCH ME MY HEAD HURTS OUCH OUCH.

My doctor sent me a note today with the results from my labs, but I totally don’t understand whether he interpreted them to say they did or they did not confirm his preliminary diagnosis of occipital neuralgia. So I wrote back to ask for more clarification and should know more tomorrow.

But after my first day on this Prednisone course, I either actually feel or I REALLY WANT TO FEEL like the pain is better. So there’s that.

If my sister had done some damn alliterative planning when she landscaped her back yard, I could title this portrait Bridget and the Begonias. But nooooooo.

So we’ve had to rename the dog Prudence.

So four years ago this happened

Then it didn't happen; I ended up leaving what was to be my third production of A Chorus Line because I was a foggy, unreliable, barely functional, poorly medicated bipolar mess who was a drag on rehearsals and an admitted liability to the production. I was heartbroken. But I still got to keep this awesome photo. Which I truly cherish.

When the blood lady realized she forgot to fill one of her vials after she’d pulled the big scary needle out of one arm

so she had to poke a new needle in the other arm and thankfully the stretchy wrapping tape color she picked now doubly matches my questionable shirt.

Tentative diagnosis: occipital neuralgia. Which in all my discussions with my doctor and in my subsequent googling seems very plausible given the locations of my headache pain. Final diagnosis still pending ...

Back at the doctor for another attempt to figure out what the hell is wrong with my stupid head

While I’m waiting and the pain is throbbing and my eyes are crossing and my ears are screaming, help me figure out this shirt. Age appropriate? On trend? Flattering colorways? Chick magnet? I’m totally lost in this quest.

It’s really hard to stop mocking these people

They look like they're going to an antebellum cotillion. Or a slave auction.

Graphic designers + the Internet give me hope for the future of humanity

Fashion PS to Melanie: Love the illusion neckline, hate the oven mitts.

Rude.

The good news: I just had what felt like a pretty solid workout—my second since The Marathon HeadacheTM started more than three weeks ago.

The other good news: It didn’t end with my head exploding in messy, screaming pain.

The bad news: Working out definitely made the pain worse.

The other bad news: Now my ears are screaming like a field of cicadas on a miserable summer night.

The worse news: WHAT THE HELL IS UP WITH MY HAIR?

Dear sad little variegated hosta that suddenly couldn’t while all its neighbors very clearly could this spring:

I’ve given you grow lights 
And mineral supplements.
What do you want from me,
BLOOD?

Really, new Pride shirt that I slept itchily in last night?

Is all of this even remotely necessary?