Dear G.O.P.:
Hi. I hear you’re planning on coming to New York City. I’m seeing ads with Democratic Former Mayor Ed Koch, saying we should welcome you to New York City. People are saying we should be open-minded, take the moral high road and embrace your culture even while your party attempts to destroy ours. Personally, I have been attempting of late to become a more politically fair-minded human being. I have avoided demonizing those with viewpoints different than mine, realizing that while I fundamentally disagree with most if not all of the GOP platform stands, I should nonetheless understand that you’re not actually 1. Satan or 2. out to get me personally. You are entitled to your opinion, and people are entitled to vote for you.
Be that as it may. As a die-hard New Yorker by choice, by, character, by fire, and by Voter Registration Card, I have a few things I’d like to share with you…

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“voting is about choice. and choice is about values.”
look, don’t get me wrong. i like john kerry. but as i listened to that line, i couldn’t help remembering another memorable politician…
“we must keep moving forwards not backwards, upwards not fowards, and always TWIRLING, TWIRLING TO FREEDOM.”
anyone else see that?

last night i had this dream where stuart and i were sitting around his house, and the post came, and it was the police report and we were really happy.
i woke up briefly, and thought, “wow, subconscious, why don’t you just smack me with a 2×4 and get it over with.”
only, then, my morning phone call came from stuart.
“guess what i’m holding.”
“what,” i said groggily.
“a brown envelope.”
the police report arrived. he’d already printed out a cover letter for the checklist, and was holding the completed letter to send to the US Embassy in London, advising them that we were ready for an interview date.
i’ve been riding cloud nine all day. and wondering how psychic i really am.

kate gets here in a week, and i’m seriously wondering if it’s too late to ask grey goose to be the official sponsor of the next two months of my life.
and maybe nikon, too, so we can actually remember it all.

like everyone else on the face of the planet other fabulous women i could mention, i love to shop. and the bigger, more expensive it is, the more i love to covet it.
which is why i get annoyed when i hear of nightmares like this. and deb my darling, this is far from the first nightmare i’ve heard about jennifer convertibles. one friend got the wrong sofa delivered three different times. another friend waited nearly three months for a sofa she’d been promised in four weeks. and now you’re having a dickens of a time getting your refund back. i’m
so peoples of the internet, i’m linking you to this. if you choose to still buy a sofa from there, at least you’ll do so informed – take a few minutes to type “jennifer convertible” and “lawsuits” into google. check with the better business bureau. and maybe, just maybe, look into some other furniture stores.
because in our small, cramped new york world, a sofa can be your haven. but not if you don’t ever get it.

happy fucking birthday, biscuit. to the warrior and the chef, to the lion with the belly laugh and the big bear hug. to the city’s most fashionable queer boy. to the wine drinking, tough talking, souffle perfecting, wall painting, cheesecake eating, story telling, ROCK STAR EXTRAORDINAIRE who’s just idly trimming his claws before he jumps out to take over the fucking world.
to bee pie and elephant parades, to rice pudding and corned beef hash but not necessarily together, to arguing over who gets the best imaginary apartment and threatening each other with bunting. to aviator sunglasses and pleather pants, to the latest stripes at express and the dubious double-polo trend. to discussing sex over cheesecake and eating pizza over buffy. to always being told to SLOW DOWN and always knowing when to tell me to SHUSHA YOU. to OMG and WHEEE and ALSO and I KNOW. to laughing it off, living it up, and loving us all.
thanks, biscuit. happy fucking birthday. hippo. fucking. birdie.

bet solemnly shaken over last night: that i will give birth to my first child wearing my <a href="knee high frye boots.
the consequences of this incredibly important bet are: dinner and drinks at the restaurant of the winner’s choice.
the lesson learned from this bet is: do NOT make rash statements about what you will and won’t do while in labor while in the company of this man.

i think the highlight of the night was probably the point where i was holding tiny seethrough underwear aloft in the air, critically examining them to see if they’d fit, and i realized half the bar was watching me.
or maybe it was tottering home drunk at two in the morning. WHATEVER, BITCHES.

last night was so wild, i think we lost a skirt.

i was having a bad morning. “my shoe broke!” i told stuart, as i started whining about other maladies. he swept me off my bad-mood feet by happily announcing the Best News Ever …. his roommate had texted to say that he’d recieved a letter from the Police.
the police report! the police report! let me show you some simple maths.
timely police report + sent checklist = interview date before september 1
and
pre-sept-1 interview date + good consular mojo = visa in hand by sept 1
and
visa in hand by sept 1 + one month’s notice at work + one-way plane ticket = stuart here by october 1st
so you can imagine our excitement. my broken shoe and other complaints flew out the window, as did his awful morning meeting, at the thought that everything really was going ahead according to our modestly wildest dreams. the magical possibility of being together on october 1st was feeling more and more real.
and then my phone rang at 1:30, when he got home. “it’s not the final report,” his tired, dejected voice said. “it’s just the letter telling us our request has been processed, and we’ll get it by august 12th.”
take all those simple maths. throw them in a blender. jumble them around. result? a possible two or three week delay. no october 1st. no columbus day weekend wedding. even more days apart.
i’d like to say i was brave and good and cheerful, like i am most other days. i wasn’t. i burst directly into tears. and didn’t stop crying for twenty minutes.
it’s not, like my bravely-not-crying stuart pointed out, the end of the world. it’s just a tiny glitch. two, three weeks, at the outside. i know we’re the luckiest bastards alive to even have found each other, much less smoothly navigated the immigration process thus far.
but i broke down because every day, i have to dig my smile out from under the bed, from where it’s sitting and feeling sorry for itself, and paste it on. because as beautiful as my life is, it’s missing something right now. i broke down because for a few beautiful hours, i could see exactly the day we’d hoped this would happen. and now, even though i know the delay might only keep us apart a few more weeks, it feels like certainty just got snatched away again.
so i cried while stuart stoically soothed me and telephonically kissed my tears away. i cried because for once, i didn’t want to prop my chin up and be brave. i just wanted to cry until i felt better.
so i did.