I have barely recovered from all the election hype. 

On Wednesday the 5th I was so happy and thrilled and hopped up on carbs and sugar from our post-election pizza party (which included copious amounts of Yes We Can Fruit Punch. Don't ask) but also so terribly heartbroken over the passage of Proposition 8.

Not to beat a dead horse or anything (quite possibly a dead horse because he or she just couldn't face life alone on the farm because he or she was prohibited from marrying his or her same-sex horsey partner!) but really, is this the best we can do?

IS IT?

It is not.

We can do better.  And we should do better. If you care, you can head over here and take a looksy.

I was going to take the babies to a march last weekend but then the sad realization that I cannot march – or walk, for that matter – dawned on me.

I am still firmly ensconced in this goddamn walking boot. And I am so over it.  A friend referred to it as my Iron Man boot which made me feel cool for about five seconds and then I just went back to complaining about how hard it is to be clomping around with this thing on all day, all out of balance, in every sense of the word.

I feel like I am in the weeds. 

And since I wasn't sure what that meant exactly, I decided to look it up on Wikipedia and was shocked to learn it might be diner lingo. DINER LINGO!  Honestly, besides a stiff drink and a cheap hooker WHAT IS BETTER THAN DINER LINGO?!

Why…legal gay marriage, Watson.

Good one.

Okay, BESIDES legal gay marriage what is better than diner lingo?

[crickets]

Thought so.

Anyhoo, 'in the weeds' could refer to "a waitress/cook that can't keep up with the tables."  Well, that's somewhat vague and confusing I thought.  And then I read on: "Refers back to
chefs' military roots, where being in the weeds would cause your army
to be slaughtered."

Hmmmmmm…slaughtered?  That's a bit melodramatic even for ME and I'm known for histrionics.

So perhaps I'm not exactly in the weeds, but I'm not in a great place at the moment.

I'm so tired of hobbling around everywhere and not being able to carry the babies from one room to another. When I feed them dinner, I'm forced to implement a complicated strategy that includes retrieving the single stroller from the garage, placing Baby 1 in said stroller and bringing him/her to the kitchen, to his/her highchair, and strapping him/her into said highchair while he/she screams bloody murder.  Then, it's pushing the empty stroller back out to the living room where Baby 2 is in the process of licking the dog's toy or possibly the sole of BeBop's shoe which he left out for the 17th trillion time.  Baby 2 then goes into single stroller and being the daring Momma that I am, I DON'T EVEN STRAP HIM/HER IN.  (Fuck yeah!)  Then Baby 2 gets strolled into the kitchen while Baby 1 is in the process of gnawing his/her arm off because it's taking me so long to get Baby 2 into his/her highchair.

And the clomping. 

SWEET MOTHER OF CHRIST THE CLOMPING.

Back and forth, clomp clomp clomp.  From the kitchen back to the highchairs again and again. Ooops, forgot the 12th spoon because the little brats darlings have thrown 11 over the side onto the dog's head.  Ooops, forgot the water.  Ooops, forgot the second water.  Ooops, time for yogurt and applesauce.  Ooops, time for the warm washcloth which must be WARMED with WARM WATER or Baby 1 and Baby 2 will howl when I'm trying to wash the dried food off their hands and faces. Howl like a howling Howler Monkey being eaten alive by a liger AND a vicious, bloodthirsty Unicorn and believe you me, that's NOT a sound you want to hear.

And then it's time for Operation Single Stroller to commence again, as I try to get both babies into their room for bedtime.

Operation Bedtime has degenerated into Operation Just Kill Me Now because the babies have decided that in order to be ready for when I sell them to the traveling carnival, they must practice their skills for hours upon hours.

What skills, you ask? Nunchuck skills, bowhunting skills, computer hacking skills?

Errrrr, well, no.  More like their juggling skills.  They totally think sweet juggling skills will come in handy once they're on the circuit. You know! The traveling carnival circuit.

If you were to peer into their room at about 7:00 PM on any given night, you'd just see a blur of fast moving arms and things flying out of the crib faster than I put them back in.  It's just a giant dust cloud of pacifiers and arms and loveys and other loveys and arms and then the monkey and then the elephant and then more arms and then ME trying to catch things as they hit the floor and roll under the cribs or fly into the dirty clothes basket (which is Parkie's favorite target) and more things just FLYING ALL THROUGH THE AIR. 

God, I'm tired just thinking about it.

I'm going to find myself a diner and order me up some dough well done with cow to cover to start with and then have two cows, make them cry, walk 'em through the garden if you please. Burn 'em both, add wax and don't forget the fries, on a rail!

And bring me a Creep. Or twenty.

It will be hard to choose between a bucket of cold mud and a white cow for dessert or an order of Eve with a moldy lid and a cup of mud so maybe I'll just order all of it.

Care to join? 

I know, my mood is so STELLAR these days, but really?  I could use the company.