SUPER-TUESDAY. ELECTION.

Dear Journal,

This is it. It's happening. Fitz is running. I know it has been a while since I last wrote to you. This feels like the only space of my life where I can be myself. The only space that is not about Fitz.

I am a mix of emotions right now.

There is a tidal wave of happenings. I do not know how to feel. He did not do well in Iowa.

Third Place...behind Looney Langston and Caldwell. It does not matter how much people try to tell me its not because of me. I know for a fact that he lost because of me. The conservative base doesn't take to kindly to women like me. New Hampshire was God Sent. Now we go into the home stretch.

It is getting harder to stay sane in all of this. The other night, our only night together in Ohio we fought. It was all a blur. I think I am taking it out on him. The press scrutiny, the distance from the kids.

Angry sex ensued by the end of the night. Nothing like riding out your frustrations at your husband's political aspirations while trying to keep quiet. Suffice to say Secret Service heard me cum. I got to work on that whole quiet thing.

Hopefully this does not fall in the wrong hands. Me calling my orgasms are neither here nor there. Hopefully this page is too faded decades from now when this is on display in the Smithsonian. Or if the kids read it.

Work is not any better. I have had to recuse myself from several cases in the hope that the campaign in not maligned for me having a "colorful rolodex" of clientele. At least this is what the "team" told us. No emails, no consultation (I'd like to see these campaign hacks give up $50,000-a-session clients on some bullshit) and most certainly no meetings via video conference. (I tried to advocate a loophole. I was shut down).

Everything is about the fucking "team" now. The "brain-trust." Ever since that stupid debacle at Priest, I know have to learn the art of mixing "high-low" fashion choices. In order for me to wear my Giuseppe's, I need to wear discount dresses from the Gap. It makes me "relate-able."

Yes. Because somehow it is my fault that the American people are dumb enough to think my husband and I, with our prep school backgrounds and trust funds are "normal".

Normal is overrated.

I enjoying being bougie, thank you very much. Generations of my people went through unspeakable tragedies for me to be able to walk into Saks and fly private.

Fascist regime, I tell ya.

Alicia tells me I'm suffering form "doctor's make the worst patients syndrome". The pollster-crisis management consultant getting in a bunch of snafus, press wise. Though I told her the next time the New York Times Editorial writes about how your marriage could anger the conservative base, then cable news proceeds to talk about said article, thus angering the base, then she could complain.

Donor dinners are a snooze. Ass kissing and speeches. The food is always bad. Stuffed chicken is not to be consumed so much. Three donor dinners in four days and stuffed chicken was a constant.

Mom has volunteered to watch the kids. As much as I hate the Dragon Lady, she can be one hell of a grandmother to the kids (when she's sober). I have Abby check in to see if the kids are up on their homework and extracurricular activity when Fitz and I are away. I trust her to care for their well-beings...somewhat. Keeping the kids grounded and enthused yes. Bedtimes, studying, and a diet not consisting of escargot? Hell No. That's what Aunt Abby is for. I hate doing this to Abs. She has her own career but she's more than happy to help out.

I had to call truce. My hands were forced. When we've one the whole kahuna, she's back to being relegated to her occasional phone calls and being a an extra in this movie we call life.

The upside to this all this campaigning is the people. Call me crazy, but I get a kick out of the whole thing. The old ladies who want to gossip, the veterans who share war stories with Fitz and I in diners. It feels good to be among Americans. Americans who wake up everyday and go to work. Puts my bitching in perspective.

We met this lovely couple in Concord, Brandon and Marisa, interracial and small business owners who told us about their little girl Sarah, who is just 10 weeks old. She was a breech, but through their faith, she made it. They told us of their struggles with family. How her family did not approve of her marrying a black man, the looks, the fights.

I was touched by how inspired they seemed by us.

"You give us hope. That someone like our daughter can become President someday, or First Lady."

Wow.

I cried. I lose track of stuff like that sometimes...

Fitz and I speak of them a lot. Brandon and Marisa. That's who we are doing this for, I guess. Whenever things get hard, whenever we get bogged down in polls, scheduling, bad hotel bookings, I remember the young couple and their miracle baby. I think of their cute bakery and their optimism.

I think of the Vietnam vet whose a Democrat who swore he would cross party lines because he wanted to have a president "that served his country, for once."

One night, when Fitz and I were locked away on a snowy night in a Double Tree suite, right before the primary, we talked about his time in the Navy. It made me think, in the years we have known each other, we talked more about his service now than ever before.

"The hardest part was wondering if I would make it back alive." He told me softly, his eyes wet with tears as he reminisced about his squadron member whose F/A-18 Hornet was shot down during a mission.

In some ways, despite the strains of the campaign, our marriage has become more durable. We talk about more substantive things. We fight a little more, frustration is natural in such a pressured environment, but our conversations are not about who need to pick up Av or Bly from practice or our in-laws grating our nerves. Everything is heightened with us. The conversations are more intense. We talk about policy over politics. We talk a lot about people we met on the trail. We cry more. Our sex life is not as frequent but is intense. We don't have sex, we fuck. Make love more. Everything or nothing.

Our physical connection has changed. For the better?

Once again, I fear my grandchildren will find this journal entry one day, but for the sake of my sanity I must confess, I have had the most earth shattering orgasms of my life on this campaign. Good God! Then again Fitz always performs best when he is under career pressure. That's how we ended up with our two knuckleheads.

We are growing into something interesting. This campaign is testing us for the better. I am learning how to become a less hands on mother, for one. It was hard in the beginning. It is one thing to be away from them on business. Normally I am never away for longer than three days. When you are your own boss, things like that are plausible. Now, I have learned to cope with seeing them so infrequently. I still kick myself for crying every time I miss a recital or basketball game but I don't want the kids pulled out of school. The one thing I will not have is their lives being uprooted by this campaign. Thank God for the support system we have.

Unfortunately, the fuckery may get to an all-time high this week. Big Jerry is coming on the trail this week.

This apparently was Cyrus's idea.

Great. Just great.

What more could a girl ask for.

Lord, our father, I promise to do twelve 'Hail Mary's' and Twenty 'Our Father's' if Fitz does not pop a vessel in his pretty head. I got to make it up to you for that whole "We attend church frequently" line at the spouse's seminar spawned by Satan.

Well, here is hoping Fitz's numbers with the "Very Conservative" portion of the Republican party will crack double-digits when CNN releases their new polls tomorrow.

My sanity depends on it.