Election Postpartum

Day 7.
T + 168 hours since the electoral map Doctors told me it was a 'B.'

10,080 minutes since my grey matter learned happiness could venture beyond the 'first slice of Fudgie the Whale' territory. (Not even the thought of Chuck Todd doing 'Just for Men - Facial Hair' pitch work in 20 years could hold a candle)

Yup, it was grand, euphoric, spectacularly refreshing. Step right up, jut your hand into my 10-gallon hat of ripped up positive adjectives, pull two out and I'll nod in agreement (Magnificently...Grandiose...Sure, that'll do).

T + 161 hours since my 8 helpings of Epidural on the rocks wore off.

Because right now I'm struggling to type. I'm clothed in 95% cotton postpartum depression brought about by plopping out an adorable 9lb 7oz hope baby. Sure, there's no bloating, or 3am emergency wake-up call from the Prime Minister of Huggies, but I'd still hop up on an Ottoman and argue with Tom Cruise that it's real.

See what I got here is an infant. He's cute, he's lovable, he puts a smile on my face. Heck, 3,500,000,000 billion warm bodies want to snuggle him in their arms and take a polaroid that they'll show their grandkids for eternity. Problem is, my little hope baby needs 71 days of incubation from the White House.

But until that time I've got nowhere to hide. Without the cover of the daily ongoings of my pregnancy campaign, I feel like I've been reincarnated 'Terminator' style in the frozen foods section at Safeway. After 8 years of having our global influence crippled by Bush I think we all want to scream like Costanza: 'we were in the pool.'

Our skin has been stretched too far, our virginal governmental trust has been ravaged, and the stock market looks like Dick Cheney's heart monitor that day in N'awlins he was told to go fuck himself

So please, don't confuse my postpartum depression with the realization that my baby isn't the Messiah. Consider it the realization that after 8 years our country actually needs a Messiah. So with 71 days remaining I have just but one request:

Please, pretty please, for my baby, don't fuck it up anymore.