My husband Preppy is the big boss in Georgia for a well-known clothing line — I’ll protect his anonymity by not mentioning which one. Let’s just say Sarah Jessica Parker really likes their khakis.

Because Preppy represents the brand wherever he travels, it’s of great importance that he stay current, wearing whatever is on display in stores. If something is inadvertently ripped or stained, he must replace it with a duplicate.

This is beyond my comprehension. My job does not require well-maintained clothes. I’m a writer. My job literally does not require clothes. If I took the notion, I could do my job entirely nude. I don’t, of course, because I do not enjoy being naked for extended periods of time unless I’m engaged in an activity which explicitly requires it — like showering, or some but not all sexual acts.

I got a chance to hang out with my best friend over the weekend. We’ve known each other for 20 years now and were chatting it up like two elder lesbians rocking on some front porch, when the topic of her attraction to redheads came up.

That’s because during our conversation some lovely redheaded ladies walked passed, which sparked stories of a variety of gingers in her life. It was quite clear from the smile on her face when she talked about them that she has a type. I was also reminded of the disastrous time I briefly became a redhead.

First let me assure you I am a natural blonde, even though I have a little help. My dishwater color is enhanced to a lovely shade of honey periodically by my hairdresser, who for years suggested I try going red.

Georgia Equality streamed the event live for those who could not come to the Phillip Rush Center in Atlanta, and the opportunity for online attendees to chat proved interesting.

At one point, one online attendee asked if Georgia Equality is basically a local chapter of the national Human Rights Campaign, receiving money from HRC. The answer, of course, is that Georgia Equality (our state’s largest LGBT political group) and HRC (the nation’s largest LGBT political group) are two completely separate organizations, with no shared funding.

For the last three and a half years, my husband Preppy and I have shared our home with Daisy, a Jack Russell beagle. The breed is called Jackabees by some, but not by us. Not everything needs to be a damn portmanteau, people. Sometimes we can just expend the effort and utter multiple words. Preppy has a very healthy relationship with Daisy, in that he treats her like a dog.

Me? I’m not quite so adamant about labels like “human” and “dog.” I don’t have a pet as much as a cohort — someone to sit on the couch and watch “Mad Men” with while we eat a whole bunch of carrots. When we are alone, I turn on my favorite music from high school and we dance. When I see Daisy eating a sock, I take her picture and put it on Instagram.

When Preppy gets up to go to work, she moves from the end of the bed to his pillow. I wake up to her staring at me. I have no idea how long she lies there waiting. Preppy finds that unsettling. I think it is conclusive evidence that I am Daisy’s favorite person in the whole world. She is totally my best friend.

Walter Cronkite is dead. And when the iconic anchor passed in 2009, he took with him the last representative of public’s unwavering trust in news media.

Sadly, those days of news always being reliable and legitimate are over. In its place, we have become a society that simply demands instant information, even if it is often wrong.

Many have placed blame for the misinformation distributed during coverage of the Boston Marathon bombing solely on the media. But all of us are at fault.

For those too young to remember, Walter Cronkite was an anchorman for the “CBS Evening News” in the ‘60s and ‘70s. He was often described as “the most trusted man in America,” because there was a perception that the news he reported had greater accuracy.

I think my neighbors have been worrying about me. That’s because every day, they see me watering the straw bales in our front yard. 

I take my metal garden pail and sprinkle water evenly atop tied straw bale squares I have placed in various places in front of our house. But what they don’t realize as they offer blank stares is these bales will provide Katie and me with the best garden we’ve ever had. Maybe.

My dad was an avid gardener. He grew massive gardens when I was a kid and we loved having homegrown fruits and vegetables on our table. But back then, I grumbled at being subjected to forced labor that caused a sore back and bug bites.

When I was 19, I managed to land a job in Atlanta, and I moved here without even visiting first. I just found an apartment online that I could afford, got approved, packed up my stuff and came for the keys. Had I visited the city beforehand, I would have realized why apartments were so cheap by Gwinnett Place Mall.

But even in Duluth, I was still totally connected to the hot and happening Atlanta gay scene, thanks to the 1990s uniter of the masses, America Online.

For the Millennials reading this, allow me to explain the process of trolling for strangers online during the Clinton administration. Disable your call waiting, dial into America Online, if it’s peak hours you might have to try a couple different numbers, then sign in as one of your six optional usernames, which America Online specifically offers for purposes of anonymous cyber sex.

Fred Phelps’ Westboro Baptist Church is coming to town, and I couldn’t be happier.

The “God Hates Fags” clan from Topeka, Kan., has announced plans to be in Atlanta for two days in April to protest targets ranging from the NCAA Basketball “Final Four” at the Georgia Dome on April 6 to three congregations — Creflo Dollar’s World Changers Church International in Atlanta, Beulah Missionary Baptist Church in Decatur, and Basilica of The Sacred Heart of Jesus in Atlanta — April 7.

“You won’t go into the Final Four Atlanta orgy-of-gross-drunken-nasty-reveling without being warned by the faithful servants of WBC, with this core message, timely and topical at this hour: Fag marriage dooms nations,” the pseudo-church warns on its website.

There are so many issues that divide women. Whether it’s abortion rights, the decision to be a mother or whether to work outside the home, women often find themselves on opposite sides of an issue.

But there is one topic that all women can relate to and support each other on, and that’s the matter of your period and the accidents that occur because of it.

If you are a woman reading this, an embarrassing moment has already come flooding back to your memory when you weren’t prepared for a visit from “Aunt Flo.” It happens every month for nearly half of your life; still somehow she can sneak up on you when you least expect it.

SCALIA: When did it become unconstitutional to prohibit gays from marrying? Was it always unconstitutional?

OLSON: When we as a culture determined that sexual orientation is a characteristic of individuals that they cannot control, and that that -

SCALIA: I see. When did that happen? When did that happen?

OLSON: There’s no specific date in time. This is an evolutionary cycle.

SCALIA: Well, how am I supposed to know how to decide a case, then, if you can’t give me a date when the Constitution changes.