Our friends managed to get in and have a ceremony because they knew someone in the DA’s office (it was all very illicit but times like this, you take advantage of any advantage). The women in front of us, a lovely couple in their mid-sixties, weren’t so lucky. They had flown all the way from Florida and they stood, their suitcases at their ankles,  despondent at hearing a man on a bullhorn announce, as he paced the line, that they might as well come back in the morning and take their chances then. “But what about us?” one of them asked him. “We’ve waited for this day for 32 years. We just flew in this morning.”

“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I don’t know what to tell you except that maybe you can go to the A-Line and ask someone if they might be willing to give up their ticket for you.”

So the shorter and rounder of the two women kissed her partner good-bye, leveraged herself over a retaining wall onto the sprawling green lawn and made her way toward those lucky thousands (and their family members and friends who’d come out to witness the happy day) in possession of tickets. Forty minutes later, as we were still negotiating how we were going to be sneaked through a side entry to the building, the woman came running across the lawn, her hand raised high above her head and in it, was a little piece of paper.

“We’re getting married! We’re getting married!” She said. There were tears running down her face. The hopeful overflowers cheered and applauded and whistled and cried. The woman on the grass leaped into the arms of her beloved and they kissed. I remember they both had short hair the color of the clouded sky above us. I remember their suitcases toppling awkwardly as they heaved to pull them up and over the wall. I remember them walking away to get married, schlepping their stuff from the C-Line to the A-Line, their hearts buoyant and full.

The day was not a political statement for that couple or any of the other thousands of couples who waited to marry. It was not an agenda driven act designed to vex right wingers and the morally indignant. It was about love and commitment and a rightful public declaration of that love and commitment. It was, to this day, one of the happiest days of my life.

That a Bush One-appointed California judge overturned proposition 8 today has left me breathless. I had steeled myself for the other verdict. And in a time when each day–and the one that preceded it, and the one that preceded it, and so on and so on—is filled with so much bad news and injustice of all kinds, this clear and obviously just ruling blows my hair back.

And I’m not alone. Below are some of the status updates on my Facebook wall this afternoon:

WAY TO GO CALIFORNIA.

‎”Proposition 8 fails to advance any rational basis in singling out gay men and lesbians for denial of a marriage license. Indeed the evidence shows Proposition 8 does nothing more than enshrine in the California constitution the notion that opposite sex couples are superior to same sex couples.” – U.S. District Court Chief Judge Vaughn Walker

To celebrate Prop 8 being ruled unconstitutional, I ordered this t-shirt for my kid. She loves toast. http://tinyurl.com/2djpywe

PROP 8 overturned in CAlifornia supreme court—–YAAAAAAA, now I need to find a husband

YES!!! Prop 8 GOES DOWN AGAIN!!!! Yay for Judge Walker!!

News flash: Prop 8 has been OVERTURNED! No More H8!

Yes!!!!!

“Moral disapproval alone is an improper basis on which to deny rights to gay men and lesbians.” Judge Walker

My love and I are no longer outlaws.

[Name redacted] is pleased to see that reason has prevailed, and very happy for those whose lives are directly affected by this law.

Woooooo!

I’m proud of California today! Woo-hoo!

#Prop8 gets rim-rocked, reminds me why I traded TX for CA in the 1st place.

blam suckas…all the fundie christians can pretty much, well, ya know…welcome to civil society, where your pastor/priest. etc doesn’t have shit to say about the law. Don’t like it. Move.

[Name redacted] must join the chorus and send mad props to Judge Walker for holding some truths to be self-evident.

Very happy that Prop 8 was overturned today. A big step forward in LGBT rights and for our society as a whole.

Human Rights = 1. Discrimination = 0. Prop 8 is overturned. Tonight, we celebrate. Tomorrow, the fight continues.

I never really understand why people are hesitant to take their kids to the Gay Pride Parade. Over the weekend, I had several different conversations about it—since I’d planned to take Ruby—and got several interesting reactions. One couple I met at breakfast this morning said that they’d always wanted to go, but motioned toward their six-year old and whispered that they’d heard it’s “basically a porn show.” Another friend dismissed it because all the “cocks” aren’t appropriate for her daughters.

Now, the porn thing is off by astronomical distances: This is a public event with participants from all across the city. The Mayor was in this past Saturday’s Pride parade, as was Republican Ron Roberts from the County Board of Supervisors, and believe me, there isn’t anything remotely titillating or even vaguely pornographic about either of these guys. Even the public defender’s office represented with a float bearing the slogan “Getting people off since 19[something or other]!”

However, while nobody was whipping out their cocks along University Avenue during this weekend’s party, I have to admit that my friend’s concern was wholly legitimate.

I stand corrected because I did indeed see Cox at the parade. As did my daughter and my bestie’s daughter and all the many children and grown-ups and families who sat on the curb in the heat, beneath a sky the color of swimming pools, sharing sun screen and snacks and spray bottles, celebrating our gay brothers and sisters.

Ruby was very excited about all the swag, the horses ridden by the Wells Fargo people (I suppose it could be argued that bankers are pornographic), and the stilt walker.

I was excited about my friend Barbarella‘s piglet, Carnitas—who may have cured me of my bacon habit forever—and the Gay Men’s Chorus, since my friends Skip and Andy were marching.

I didn’t find Skip and Andy but they were out there and they were proud, I know.

Oh, and speaking of excitement, Ruby just about peed her pants at the sight of the man with the RAINBOW! HAIR!

Who’s not tickled by RAINBOW! HAIR!?

Personally, I was tickled by the message on his shirt because the message is the reason I bring my daughter to the parade. Love, not hate, is what I wish to instill in her.

I guess this could be considered Jesus porn because I was practically orgasmic at the sight of these folks. Standing there in the street watching groups of people march beneath such signs is encouraging. They make you believe in humanity and remind you that The Rock church doesn’t represent all Christians. Just too many of them.

Of course, I’d be lying if I represented the parade as all Hail Marys and Holy Water. There was a little bit of shaking, jangling flesh out there, too. And God Bless it!

So she has pasties on her nibbles. Still: Not porn. Just a little edgy. And, I’m guessing, much cooler than my flesh-toned padded bra that’s so old it has dimples. Anyway, have you been to the beach lately? Right. Moving along…

Every parade is better with queens:

In fact, pretty much every situation in life is improved by the presence of a drag queen.

However, the people you really want on your side when the chips are down (or up, no matter) is your family. Which is why PFLAG is the greatest part of the Parade every single year. PFLAG is, hands down, the very best group, float or no float.

I challenge anyone to remain stony when these people walk by. I wanted to run up and hug them. Instead I took their blurry picture with my phone.

I don’t know who Ruby will love when she grows up. And I don’t care. I just want her to love, to be loved and to be happy. I hope that’s what she is learning from me.

While I feel it’s my duty as a self-declared wonk to keep up to date on world affairs, I’ve let my New Yorkers stack up unopened, and I’ve recently been skipping online news articles in lieu of anything with glossy pictures. Why waste precious time with cumbersome words, I figure. They’re necessary, I know, but they’re so—wordy and, too often, molecularly depressing. Kind of like a Seymour Hersh exposé.

The daily cycle is a tidal wave of tragedy, hopelessness, injustice, familial murder-suicides, airplane crashes and foreign wars. Even the trashy stuff is more than I can bear, what with the follicularly challenged pair of cretins called Jon and Kate Plus Eight (breathe, Belfer).

Because my eyes can roll back in their sockets only so far, I’ve temporarily limited my intake of current events to articles that advertise visual aides in the headline: “Michelle Obama Visits Eiffel Tower with Sasha and Malia, Wears Stylish Scarf (PHOTOS).” Pictures of her stylish scarf, you say? Picture me uplifted and scrolling down, bypassing all the wordy words.

Of course, the missus hit the perfect note with her scarf. And, of course, she draped it with all the je ne sais quoi-ness of a true Parisian. I bet she even went so far as to—Mon Dieu!—speak the language. And given that she isn’t saddled with an accent from Midland, she probably didn’t say bon-jew-er when being respectful. Score one more for bringing civility back to the White House.

While I thought Michelle looked lovely, it was Malia who caught my eye this time. It took a sec for the full impact to register, but I did the cyber version of a double take when I clicked back one photo. There she was, the budding fashionista, sporting a sassy red windbreaker and, beneath it, the very same T-shirt I was wearing while not reading the article about her trip to France.

I was unnaturally thrilled that I could be so hip in my tissue tee with the Indian-inspired batik silk screen. But the realization that I was elated to be dressed like a 10-year-old immediately squelched my elation. Did I just shop in the Juniors section and not know it? Have I lost track of age-appropriate attire? And worse: Could I be in danger of dressing like my child?

The implications of that last thought were paralyzing as I saw my life play out beneath the vaulted ceilings of Rancho Peña-wherever, bejeweled tracksuits hung in the closet, Cookie Lee and Silpada parties the highlight of each passing month. Maybe the daily news isn’t so depressing after all.

The horror of my imagined life threatened to derail my end-zone fashion dance as I stared at the mini-me on the computer. But I didn’t let it because the real reason for my glee was that I knew Malia’s shirt wasn’t purchased at Barney’s or Bergdorf’s.

Our T-shirt came from Target. Yes. It. Did. Miss Malia wore our $12 Target shirt to the Eiffel Tower. Last week, her mama wore a $10 Gap tee and $24 Gap cardigan when she lunched with Nancy Reagan. And as documented by photographer Callie Shell, our president has holes—not diamonds—on the soles of his shoes.

All of this focus on clothing may seem, on its face, superficial. But it isn’t. Heidi Montag making the CNN homepage for quitting and then un-quitting a reality show in Costa Rica because “the devil” advised her to “get out of the jungle” is superficial. Our first family being frugal is reassuring and smart. Though, I’d like to openly encourage B. Obama to loosen the pocketbook and update his wardrobe with some Ben Sherman flat-front trousers. The pleats make him look disturbingly Republican and un-cool, especially when paired with his silence on gay service members.

What the first-family pragmatism does for me is instill a sense of patience and an ability to step back from the reactionary ledge. They embody a thoughtfulness nonexistent during the mission-accomplished years and have a way of bridging the daunting crevasse between red and blue. Certainly, those uncompromising outliers on the far ends of the political spectrum will never be satisfied. The temper tantrums of those who stockpile ammo and incite violence, and those who throw their hands in the air at the imperceptibly slow pace of change blind them to nuance.

On some level, I understand this frustration. As an unapologetic leftist who believes women should have the choice of what to do with our bodies, who believes all Americans should have access to healthcare and who believes gays should be allowed to marry and serve openly in the military, I want more and I want it faster.

If only because we have thinkers modeling proper behavior for the rest of us, I’m willing to wait and see, to give things time and to try to view the bigger picture, literally and figuratively. I take much comfort in knowing America currently has the best ambassadors I ever expect to see in my life, and while Malia and I spend our respective allowances at the girl’s department in Target, I’ll try to enjoy the apoplectic fits of the haterz.

(A version of this is published in today’s issue of San Diego CityBeat.)

1. Republicans have learned nothing from their failed policies. They remain more determine for their ideology to trump progress. They choose to be be anti-American obstructionists rather than becoming genuine patriots working to make the future better for American citizens (and citizens of the world, too, but this is a bit much to ask of these ethno-centric lizards). But, as we were reminded late last week, Obama won. And President Obama (!)? He’s got the back of thinking people and is proving it every day, even while his detractors work and hope for his failure. I cried as I read this just now. Equality for all citizens—including the right for gays to marry—is not only possible with this new administration but is an eventuality. And while it will take more time, even the narrow-minded fear mongers on the right can’t stop it.

2. Democrats did compromise for the Repubs by removing money for infrastructure and stripping the bill of funding desginated for family planning (still, the unscrupulous righties balked because this way, they mostly get what they want while distancing themselves from the legislation should it pass and fail to work). As I see it, the problem with removing family planning dollars is that people like this vile woman continue to somehow wind up pregnant because, geegollygosh! I have no idea how that happened?!? (Insert eyelash batting here.) It’s one of those uncontrollable things, right? One day you sneeze and ShaZAYam! More self-righteous republicans on the planet. I say we need some forced sterilization in that bill. Just sayin’. Too bad gays can’t pro-create and populate the planet with a whole bunch of mini-gays. Wouldn’t that be a party? We need to get ‘em marriage rights first, then we can work on impregnating all of them, preferably with multiples.

3. Speaking of multiples and the need for mandatory tubal ligation and vasectomy, my uterus nearly exploded while reading this. The woman was in the hospital for seven weeks prior to having her litter and the puppies will remain in hospital for another couple of months. That family must have some really awesome health insurance. I wonder if it covered the fertility drugs…. Whether they have the best insurance policy on the planet or none at all is irrelevant, really, because either way, the rest of us are helping to foot the bill for this family (and I’m not speaking about financial assistance). A family which incidentally? Includes six older siblings. Social responsibility? Anyone? Anyone? They have yet to show their faces to the public and I can’t say that I blame them. I’d be in hiding, too.

4. Really. She expects us to believe that they were having mind-blowing sex? Mmmmhmmmm.

5. What year is it again?

Snuggled firmly between Tibet and India is the world’s newest democracy, a tiny country called Bhutan, where last Thursday, a very young and handsome man had a colorful raven-topped crown placed upon his head by his father, officially anointing him the fifth Dragon King of Bhutan. Oxford educated Jigme Khesar Namgyel Wangchuck of the Wangchuck Dynasty is, at 28, the youngest head of state in the world and will preside over a country where success is measured by the Gross National Happiness, or GNH, as it were.

The strapping new Dragon King, who The Associated Press described as having “Elvis-like hair,” has promised to balance modern policies with traditional philosophies, thereby ensuring the GNH remains high in his homeland, where television was un-banned in 1999. This was a crucial step toward the modernization of Bhutan, but it came with a gentle warning: Too much TV can be detrimental to GNH. You certainly don’t go to Oxford ’cause you watched a lot of it.

It should come as little surprise when I say that Nov. 4, 2008, culminated with a dramatic explosion of my own personal GNH. I hit the jackpot of happiness that night. I won the lottery of love. Sort of like that carnival game when you swing a big mallet-thingy onto a platform, the impact of which forces a rubber ball to shoot to the top of a poll and ring a loud bell. Well, this election was the mallet-thingy, and that bell was my bliss.

Overcome with emotion—and probably due in some small part to the consumption of obscene amounts of champagne straight out of the bottle and later, regrettably, some tequila—I risked living the rest of my joyous days as a registered sex offender. With my husband and four friends, I ran through the streets of North Park, indecently exposed, in nothing but running shoes, white over-the-knee socks with black stars and two strategically placed Obama stickers. Incidentally, those stickers are made to stick, boy. Owwwch! is all I’ll say about their removal.

Now, perhaps the emotion that precipitated my hurling of caution into the wind was due to the Herradura. Or perhaps not. Because, the thing is, I’m still exhibiting never-before-recorded (at least not in my family) levels of euphoria.

And I’m not talking about the kind induced by something you eat, drink, smoke, snort or shoot. I’m talking about an organic, spiritual, big-picture, comprehend-the-gravity-of-it gross national happiness.

I’m talking about the kind of ridiculous glee that makes me want to put a giant framed photo of our next president above the fireplace, or to wonder whether our awesomely awesome new first lady will jump up and down on the presidential bed her first night in the White House (because, you know, I would), or to obsessively read stories about where Malia and Sasha (whom the Secret Service has aptly dubbed “Radiance” and “Rosebud”) will go to school come January and what they will name their new puppy. For the first time in my life, I cannot wait for the annual White House Easter Egg hunt.

My GNH is an unfamiliar yet overflowing emotion so abundant that I find myself lusting after Rachel Maddow, hanging on her every chuckled word. I imagine being Maddow’s girlfriend and staring into her mischievous brown eyes while she speaks of Holy Mackerel moments. (I’ll fess up now that I have a thing for Maddow. Rachel thinks Sean Connery was the best James Bond; I think Sean Connery was the best James Bond. Rachel loves a crier; I’m a crier. Political girl-crush complete.) This GNH is causing some childish and geekish, if not all together, losery behavior.

Like millions of people across the country and, in fact, around the globe, I thrill at the reparative prospects of President-elect Barack Obama so thoroughly that I weep on and off throughout any given day—which has made me question whether I’m turning into my father-in-law. Hopefully, I won’t grow hair on my back.

I think I’m in shock, really. I didn’t believe we would elect Obama. Did. Not. Believe it. I doubted that Americans had it in them and, when it comes right down to it, I had good reason to be skeptical: Alaskans, as of this writing, have elected a convicted felon to the Senate. In Minnesota, a McCarthy-esque woman who accused her colleagues in the House of being “anti-American” was sent back to D.C. for anther term. And, most pitifully, California, Arizona and Florida passed reprehensible legislation against our gay brothers and sisters, citizens of this nation. Oh, and then Arkansas up and banned gay couples from adopting. None of this is terribly reassuring.

But the silver lining is visible in the form of Barack Obama. He looks different than any president we’ve ever had, and it is impossible to see him without being immediately conscious of the history behind him and the progress he embodies. If he represents any one thing, it is the fact that change is inevitable; it will come. It takes time and effort. But it will come. As Newark, N.J., Mayor Corey Booker told Maddow last week, “There is no right or left. Only forward or backward.” Americans have chosen the forward trajectory.

The 19th-century French philosopher Alexis de Tocqueville once said, “The greatness of America lies not in being more enlightened than any other nation, but rather in her ability to repair her faults.” Maybe we’re not as happy as the citizens of Bhutan. We’ve gotten ourselves into a deep hole, and now it’s time to start digging our way out. But we’ve turned our backs on fear and chosen possibility. We’ve offered up one gigantic apology to the rest of the world and the promise of a better, more humble and self-aware America by electing our own Dragon King. By so doing, we’ve exponentially increased our Gross National Happiness, if only for the honeymoon period. I’ll take it.

But I quit watching television for a gloriously long time and when I came back to him during the past few months, I found that he’d taken a turn down Dramatic Street, steering sharply away from his Edward R. Murrow-style homage in favor of Enquiring-minds-want-to-know antics. I find his “Stupidest Person in the World” as ghastly as O’Reilly’s “Pinhead of the Week” segment. That I even know what the Pinhead segment is makes my aortic valve stick in the closed position.

But.

Sometimes I’m able move past Olbermann’s self-aggrandizing oration and let myself focus on the words. Such as in this video where he absolutely nails It.

They were huddled together beneath their umbrella in what had to be the first real rain storm we’ve had in San Diego in six months. They were not deterred by the weather but instead were sunny as they smiled and waved at passing cars.

After leaving Ruby, I went back to the corner and snapped a few photos through the rain drops on my lens and the tears in my eyes. This is Gina and Carla Grossini-Concha. They are in love and they were married a couple of weeks ago. They planned on a big family celebration next autumn but despite being able to convince some voters to cast their ballots against Proposition (h)8 that day, a disturbingly misguided 52% of Californians have decided that Gina and Carla aren’t entitled to the same rights to which Sam and I are entitled simply because they love each other, instead of men. Look at them:

Do you see anything but two beautiful people in love?

I believe we have a moral responsibility to stand in solidarity with Gina and Carla and all gay citizens. If you live locally, there are two rallies being held this weekend and, as Carla wrote to me in an email today, “…for the sake of the freedoms and equality that the constitution is intended to protect for everyone, please come!”

Friday 11/7/08 (TODAY!) at 9 PM
From Balboa Park -6th Ave and Laurel Street, down to City Hall

Saturday 11/8/08 at noon
From 1st Ave and University all the way down University to 30th Street