The overwhelming frustration and anxiety I've been feeling about the MCAT is poignantly illustrated in this graph. So much so that I may have laugh-cried when I found it. Tis so true guys, tis so true.

You’ll realize that, after so much silence on this blog lately, this post is only forewarning you of even more silence to come, but please bear with me as I embark on this pivotal point in my premed life. The application season is creeping up on me/fellow premeds applying this year, and let me just say that although I’m excited to get this stressful, expensive, and emotionally/mentally taxing process over with…OMG ASKFNISUNSKDHGHAKJDFA IT’S HAPPENING SOOOON.

*end freak-out gurgle*

Dear Blog,

I’m going to keep this short and (bitter)sweet: I’m breaking up with you.

For now, at least.

It’s not you, it’s me. Well, it is you, actually.

It’s said that time is money, but when you’re studying for the MCAT, time is points you could get for the right answers that you studied for in the extra 5 minutes here and 20 minutes there. Time also happens to be extraordinarily precious when your study window is already shrunken to a fraction of what you’d like/need because of other duties, like parenting.

So I’m trimming a lot of my day’s routines to optimize the time in it, which means you are one of its casualties.

Rather than leaving unannounced, I thought an awkward letter to let you know would be more appropriate.

I promise to be back by mid-May(ish), and who knows, maybe post one or twice between now and then.

But for now, go into sweet hibernation as I go on hiatus.

********

And for any fellow MCAT takers, here’s a clever nugget I found via Google Images. God bless memes and good ones at that.

Wish me luck and send me all of your good fairy dust/prayers/vibes/powers/ANYTHING.

I bet you can tell when Saad is back (hint: some virtual space of mine gets neglected).

He came back almost three weeks ago for what was supposed to be a week’s visit, but it turned into nearly three weeks. He left yesterday morning and we’ve been chugging along business as usual since.

In unrelated news, I’ve decided to give up sugar, salt, and to an extend, caffeine. Saad has been encouraging me to do so, just for general health, for the entirety of our marriage. He doesn’t add salt to anything he eats, drinks his tea and coffee plain (this is all sorts of gross to me), considerably limits his sugar intake in general, and rarely has caffeine. For the most part, his motto is “everything in moderation,” which I believe in as well, but please don’t ever give me plain tea or coffee. In the last few years, we’ve deceased or eliminated salt/ sugar in almost everything we purchase or make, but there’s room for improvement on my part, we’ll say.

Nonetheless, he’s been a big advocate for giving up both as completely as possible and encouraging me to join him in this regard.

Well, there’s been a breakthrough; this is the conversation that occurred this past weekend.

Me: Babe! So, guess what? (I never really wait for him to answer) I read an article on how sugar becomes an addictive, silent killer and linked to [this disorder and that syndrome blah blah blah], and so I think I’m going to try giving it up.

Saad: You don’t say…

Me: While I’m at it, I read a few tweets from this doctor about blood pressure and salt intake. So I think I should give salt up too.

Saad: *nodding*

Me: Also, I don’t like the way caffeine completely annihilates my sleeping pattern. A cup of coffee or too many cups of tea keep me up and I’m a little grouchy and moody the next day (read: become medusa). I kind of feel like everyone suffers when that happens.

Saad: *nodding*

Me: So I should probably give up caffeine, or at least tone it down to decaf (which still has traces of caffeine and differs from caffeine -free) to wean myself off.

Saad: *nodding*

Me: HEY! We can do this together. Maybe you can teach me your ways Oh, Wise and Bland One. I just wish I had come to these realizations a little sooner.

Saad: *head bang to wall*

The first test was my breakfast this morning — tea and a bagel. Plain bagel and god-help-me, plain tea. I doubt I have ever had a more punishing cup of tea in my life.

So then I cheated and added honey.

But I rebounded and ignored the glorious slices of cheesecake left over from Saad’s birthday. I longingly gazed at them, maybe mouthed I Love You’s to them, but I was a big girl and said No, not this time. Instead I had fabulously thick and creamy greek yogurt with fruit.

We’ll see how long this lasts, but I figure better health is worth a shot.

And now that I’ve committed blogging sin and talked about what I ate instead of something interesting, I will conclude this post with these sugar monsters:

via lifewithcake.com

P.S. If the “old” sugar-loving me were eating these deliciously scary little critters, I’d have to eat their eye first so that my food isn’t look at me as I eat the rest of its cakey body. I’d spare it the gore and eliminate its sight first, you know? Have a little kindness in my devouring ways sort of thing.

Let me tell you a tale of how one girl wrote not one, not two, not three, not four, but five completely different personal statements all for one application package. She did so not because she had two have five of them, but because she [cue mick jagger] can’t get no satisfaction out of any of them.

And let me also tell you that although she’s written plenty of papers, the magnitude of le personal statement carries an air of GET IT RIGHT, EVEN IF YOU HAVE TO BLEED FOR IT as she takes it to be an important part of her medical school application.

This girl also likes to tell her tale in third person.

Back in September, she read forums, sites, blogs and other media on how to conjure up the most magically amazing statement anyone has ever written! One to move the adcom (admissions committee) like no other statement has before! By October, she organized a comprehensive list of “life events” pertinent to her passion for a medical career. This list turned into a quasi-excel worksheet of main points, details, and theses.

By November the girl had her, unbeknownst to her at the time, first of four more drafts she was going write. Oh! The relief of having a draft completed because once there’s a draft, there’s just editing left to do, which is the easy part. Making content is harder than making corrections.

By late November, the girl had reservations about her statement. It just didn’t sit well with her — in fact she couldn’t even look at it, much less read through it.

DELETE. Back to square one.

Throughout December, the girl was sick with a serious case of writer’s block. Regardless of staring at her Detailed Spreadsheet Of Life Events, Main Points, And Potential Theses, she couldn’t get past the block. So she purged her spreadsheet, shrinking it to a fraction of its size and looked at it with new eyes.

Still, it wasn’t until January that she had a breakthrough.

“Aha! ”She thought.

I’ll write about this one major event in my life and spread it out to explain why and how it has prepared for me a medical career!

“Finally, I’m getting somewhere with this!” She gleamed.

After a week of drafting and editing, she sent it out to friends for feedback. Long story (with in a story) short, the more feedback she received, the more she realized she mega-focused on one aspect of her life and decided she hated her draft. She couldn’t even think about it without wanting to throw up.

DELETE. Back to square one.

She let a few topic ideas sit with her for a few days before she started statement number three. Half way through it she could feel her “I hate it bone” acting up again.

After a day or two of trying to make it work,

DELETE. Back to square one.

At this point, the girl was getting pretty annoyed with this personal statement ordeal, especially since this would be the only time she would have to write it (she would be getting personal with the statement’s application mate, a test called the Let-Me-Wring-Out-Your-Soul-And-Leave-It-For-The-Voltures…or the MCAT in the following months).

She pondered over her resume/ CV and brainstormed a new draft. This draft sort of worked. I mean, it had concrete examples and appropriate details, but it didn’t wow by any means. It was essentially her resume extended over a page and a half, with sprinkles of a storyline. But it was the most comprehensive of all of the drafts she had conjured up, so she stuck with it and tried to make it work.

Work, it did not. And she felt it. Or rather, didn’t feel it. And this girl? She has to be proud to present something she’s written, especially to the people who carry the ticket to her dreams.

DELETE. Back to square one.

She spent many nights staring at a blank Word document. It’s believed that no one has ever agonized over a personal statement as much as this over-thinking-girl has.

She consulted a darn good writer she’s gotten to know. Asked for feedback on her paper, confessed she didn’t like her own draft, asked for advice, came across some inspirational words –all in one night.

Dear audience, inspiration finally struck. It struck with the force of a powerful tidal wave and like someone caught in the vigorous waters, she let the current take her.

Instead of trying to formulate a masterpiece, she just started writing. Writing about herself, her family, her passions, and her struggles.

There was a loud POP! as the flood gates of her writer’s block bursted and overflowed that once blank Word document. She wrote and wrote and wrote.

After being creatively constipated for so long, it was quite satisfying to dump all of her thoughts onto virtual paper.

It was one monstrously lengthened paper, similar to this post but less third-person.

The following night she trimmed pounds of fat from it and before she knew it, she had a slimmer, well-rounded, personal-yet-professional piece of statement in front of her. She sent it out to her designated editors and was happy that they enjoyed it much more than the previous three, two, one.

Although many rounds of editing and proofreading await her, the girl was immensely relieved to have this burden off of her shoulders. She slept (figuratively) better knowing it was one less part of her application haunting her.

The End (of the personal statement saga, at least).

Is anyone there?

Please excuse the deafening silence around here — we had a week-long internet fiasco (a post in of itself) and then just a bunch of random, busy stuff going on (probably another post in of itself).

In lieu of the long, mostly random post I was going to have up today, I thought you’d probably enjoy a gut-bursting sketch from Harvard Sailing Team, a hilarious sketch comedy group, a little more.

This is my favorite of their sketches:

Breakfast

Me: What would you like for breakfast?

Aiman: Jellybeans!

Me: Uh, no. How about (insert decent breakfast food here)?

Aiman: Oh, no thank you.

Me: Okay, what do you want then?

Aiman: I’ll take cereal.

Me: Fine.

Lunch

Me: Buddy, lunch is ready.

Aiman: No, I don’t like (insert something he does like and has always eaten before)

Me: But!

Aiman: I DON’T LIKE IT.

Me: So what do you want to eat?

Aiman: Uh…BOSS! (which is what he used to and still occasionally calls pasta. Don’t ask.)

Me: Ugh, okay. *makes “boss” and hands him plate*

Aiman: AHHH!!

Me: What is it??

Aiman: I don’t want macaroni, I like penne rigate, please.

Me: *twitch, twitch, twitch* Aiman, I don’t have penne rigate, but you can have either macaroni or the lunch everyone else is having.

Aiman: *breakdown*

Me: *ignore breakdown*

Aiman: Mama, please I will eat cereal.

Me: *figures better cereal than nothing at all*

Dinner

Me: Okay, Aiman, child of mine, my dear first-born, what in God’s name will you eat for dinner?

Aiman: Uh, cookies?

Me: *ignore suggestion and repeat question”

Aiman: Cereal!

Me: No way! You had cereal for breakfast and lunch; you need real food! Eat some real food! If I make (insert real food here), will you eat some of it?

Aiman: No thank you.

Me: So what do you want to eat?

Aiman: Cereal!

Me: Forget it. We’re having (insert his favorite dish) and I just know you’ll love it, won’t you dear child?

Aiman: …..Cereal!

Me:*hands him dish he always ate before or something he’d most likely try based on previous foods he used to eat*

Aiman: Oh. Oh, no thank you mom. I’m full.

Me: ….

Aiman: Mama, can I have some juice?

Me: You know you can only have juice after you have your meal.

Aiman: Okay, can I have cereal then?

Me: That’s not a meal baby boy, eat (real food).

Aiman: *breakdown*

Me: *ignore breakdown*

Aiman: Mama, I’m want some juice and yogurt.

Me: Aiman, it’s time for dinner. Eating yogurt will make you hungry in the middle of the night. Come with me to the kitchen and show me what you’ll eat”

Aiman: *straight to cereal nook*

Me: *scream EXCEPT THE DAMN CEREAL in my head*

Me: No, Aiman, pick something else.

Aiman: *breakdown*

Me: *bargain, bet, play with, beg, force, bribe child to EAT SOMETHING*

Aiman: *refuses to let up*

Me: Whatever. I’d rather you eat cereal before bed then go to sleep hungry.

3AM

Aiman: Mama, my tummy hurts.

Me: *mid sleep gurgle*

Aiman: Mama, my tummy is hurting.

Me: Do you feel sick or hungry?

Aiman: I’m hungry.

Me: *midnight lecture on importance of eating real food, nutrition, balanced diet, good for us! blah blah blah*

Aiman: Mommy, can I have cereal?

Me: *head explodes*

______________

My once champion eater has become the Pickiest Child in the Cosmos and it pretty much sucks donkey butt (or ass squared, bwhahaaha).

I know it’s a phase and one that my mom informs me I went through as well, so that’s partially reassuring. I mean, eating cereal 24/7 won’t hurt anyone, right? He fills up on fruits, certain veggies, yogurt (so much yogurt), etc. in between meals, but it’s getting him to eat non-cereal for a meal that’s challenging.

Even as I wrap up this post, he just slurped up his last drop of milk from his cereal– that he had for lunch.

A few nights ago, he flipped out at the sight of parsley specks in his lasagna –the same lasagna he’s always had and with the same parsley specks, mind you. Do you know how impossible it is to try to scrap off specks of parsley? Do you know how impossible it is to predict what will offset flipping out? It’s like I need permission for every single ingredient!

But that’s all.

I just want everyone to know that I live with a tyrant.

via starryeyekid

Today has been a humbling day. Within the span of about 24 hours, there’s been news of everything from separation, divorce, recurring illness, and death from friends both online and off.

When there’s a tornado of heartache swirling around people you care about, you want to break through the shatterproof glass and take them to safety, but the thing about shatterproof glass is that it’s shatterproof. So all you can do is help them weather the storm and pray it doesn’t rip them apart and spit them out.

I have tons of pictures of all the fun we’ve been having lately, but the post I intended to have up doesn’t seem right for today.

So instead I’d just like to remind everyone to stay safe, work it out, and hug your loved ones.

Everything is temporary.

Some of the things I miss about undergrad:

Waking up and getting dressed for a day outside of the house. This means that I had an excuse to buy new clothes.

Putting my driving skills to test by getting through horrendous traffic, parking,and sprinting (figuratively, of course!) to class to make it there at least 20 min. before class (read next point/”memory”).

Finding the perfect position/seat in class. Although there aren’t assigned seats, once I find my spot I don’t exchange the seat with anyone for anything. And if someone is in my seat by the time I get there (which is why I try to get to class super early), then I stare at the back of their head and laser beam mean, angry thoughts at them.

How acceptable it was to stalk prey in the parking lot. This means that it was perfectly normal to cruise the campus parking lot(s) until you find someone (prey) walking to their car and then slowly trailing (stalking) them to their vehicle for their spot. For some reason, this never worked non-campus lots.

What was that? You didn’t stalk prey? Are you telling me it’s creepy?

Whipping out my notebook and pen/pencil, the only two things on my desk –nothing more, nothing less. Highlighters, sticky notes, erasers, flashcards —NOTHING ELSE, I SAID.

Cracking open my notebook and gently caressing the clean new page before I tattoo it in notes.

Listening with genuine interest to the lecture; sort of listening for leisure, but noting for knowledge. I think the only classes I involuntarily zoned out in were Calculus II and III because they were Calculus II and III. Nearly four years later, I am still traumatized from these two classes. From the times I was paying attention/awake, at least.

My hidden study spots in the library and other buildings.

Stopping by the campus Einsteins or Starbucks to grab coffee and a snack before going to study.

Sitting in front of the water garden or under the shade of magnificent trees.

Dodging bike riders. And scooter riders. And roller bladders. And golf-cart drivers. And unicyclists. We were a transportation-diverse campus, obviously.

Seeing the campus swarm with students in between classes sections.

As stressful finals time can be, I love the atmosphere. Looking like the living dead with coffee in one hand and clenching last-minute notes in the other. More than anything though, it’s the high of completing an exam and walking out of the room momentarily burden free until the next final.

Running into old classmates/friends and professors. And sometimes avoiding them.

Being with my boys (Saad and Aiman) at the end of the day.

The smell of angst that filled the waiting room at the pre-med advisor’s office. Sadly, there was no antiperspirants for this.

Making difficult decisions:

I didn't make this; it's a meme floating around the internet.

Except this illustration should include mother/wife duties for my experience, but let’s not get technical (although we should definitely get technical about that major detail).

***

College flew by, as did the last 24 years of my life. I’m beyond ready for the next phase of school and look forward to increased coffee consumption, protectiveness of my seat, burden-free highs, and general anxiety in medical school.

OH, MEDICAL SCHOOL.

Are my angst-stained armpits showing?

11-year-old sister: OH MY GOSH! I need to tell you something!

Me: Okay.

11 yo sister: Okay, I was walking home and I saw the two dogs from a few weeks ago (she saw this dog duo that occasionally makes their way through the neighborhood– a small chihuahua and a bigger “really puffy” one, in her words) on the other side of the street.

She’s afraid of dogs and so I thought this story was going to be hilarious. One skinny, awkward preteen against a chihuahua and “really puffy” dog.

Me: Did they chase you?

11yo sister: No.

Me: Oh, well that’s good. Because you shouldn’t —

11yo sister: I know this is inappropriate, but they were doing something.

Me: What? What are you talking about?

11yo sister: I didn’t mean to look, but it just happened!

Me: What are you talking about?

11yo sister: *deep breath in* I saw them across the street. One second they were just standing there, but then they started…*turns away from Aiman and in a low whisper* MATING.

Me:…

This wasn’t so bad. What followed next? That sort of crossed the line.

11yo sister: The chihuahua leaped on top of the puffy one’s back while it was sitting down and started MATING IT.

Me: Boo, it’s okay, it’s called –

11yo sister: THEN! The puffy one got up while the chihuahua was still on it’s back, but now the chihuahua was dangling off the puffy one’s butt *suddenly stopped*

Me: Still mating it?

11yo sister: *nods head, silence* WHILE IN THE AIR.

Me: Oh snap, that IS inappropriate.

I don't think the puffy dog wanted ANY of this.

Do you find that you’re too graceful? That you can walk and chew your gum at the same time and look fabulous while doing it?

Being perfect is such a bore, isn’t it?

Well, have I got good news for you!  Below is instructional wisdom on how to be fabulously uncouth.

This guide, studied and tested by the clumsiest and most awkward scientist in the world, is here to help you disgrace yourself and fall into imprefection. Who wants poised and functional when you can have blundering and hazardous?

Involved parties:

• Mother, awaiting post bedtime freedom
• Two young children, 3 years old and 7 months old

Supplies:

• Sharp, loud child’s toy
• Dark, floor-boards-need-oiling children’s room

Instructions:

1. Begin bedtime routine with children, not forgetting to repeatedly wrangle 3 year old up the stairs and into the tub while 7 month old helplessly dangles along.
2. Complete bath and story.
3. Now, the hardest part: getting children to doze off and sleep.
   • 3 year old, accustomed to routine, settles in and goes to sleep
   • 7 month old, not as accustomed and in a distracted phase, finds smallest, most random thing in room (ie. small speck in the middle of the wall) extraordinarily exciting and fixates upon it. Seven month old fights sleep, delaying mother’s freedom other chores.
4. After much nursing, swaying, willing child to focus on sleeping, child finally (FINALLY) sleeps.
5. Mother, assess your environment and calculate every movement between your position in the room and the infant’s bed.
6. Mother, use your ninja skills (acquired via older child’s sleep sensitivities when he was an infant) to move stealthly through room.
7. Mother, gently settle infant into bed and calculate plan to exit room.
8. Mother, before leaving, look at both children and smile warmly. The think about all that sweet precious independence that awaits you downstairs and smile even harder.
9. Mother, gently turn while smiling, to get out of room.
10. Mother, begin creeping towards door –RAAAAWWWR! You just stepped on 3 year old’s very pointy and stupidly loud, flashy dinosaur toy he snuck into room.
    • Duck and clasp dinosaur toy, trying to muffle the noise.
    • Lick the wound of your injured foot (not really, but you know).
    • Stand to check on children.
    • Lean forward to check if infant’s eye’s are open (for whatever reason).
    • While leaning forward, press on injured foot, underestimate the pain AND FALL.
    • Try to salvage fall by grabbing rail, only to miss it completely.
    • Instead of grabbing rail, tangle yourself in random lamp cord and take the lamp down with you
    • Crash of lamp and few knick knacks falling off stand
    • Involuntarily make ugly noise while falling.
    • Land on stupid dinosaur again —RAAAAWWWR!
    • Try to muffle stupid dinosaur again.
    • Sit in silence…3,2,1
    • Infant crying
    • 3 year old awake, asking “Mom? Mom? What happened? YOU’RE PLAYING WITH MY DINOSAUR??”
11. Mother, momentarily sit there and hate yourself.
12. Mother, calm children down.
13. Re-sway, re-bounce, re-hum to get infant to sleep again as extra punishment.
14. When children are back to sleep, Mother, do not smile and sure as hell do not think about anything but army crawling out of room because you can’t step on a stupid flashy, loud dinosaur when you’re army crawling, now can you?

And there you have it –it really IS that simple.

*Sound effects not included unless personally projected.

**Dignity not a part of this package.

Happy Self-Disgracing!

CAN YOU HEAR ME  ME ME ME ME ME ME ME

As I clean off the cobwebs and dust all over this blog, I notice it reeks of abandonment and neglect.

But fear not, for I am here to tidy up this mess!

Where should I start? Should this be one long (long, long, long) update post in which I tell you more than you care to know? Or should I only highlight the important aspects of the last ten or so days? Should I , oxymoronically, shut-up and talk the talk already?

I’LL DO ALL THREE without knocking you over, hopefully.

The important part(s)

Since the last post:

• We are still fighting THRUSH! Oh my sweet God of mercy and sanity, WE ARE STILL FIGHTING THRUSH. We completed the entire treatment course and were good to go for about a day or two until I noticed the white spots in the back of her throat again, after which I may or may not have sat there cursing the overgrown yeast partying it up in my baby’s throat. I so want to call the cops and complain of disturbance of population control on their ass and squash their party. Just as I figured, it’s probably because of one thing that I forgot to boil or sanitize that reinfected her/us. So anyway, we’re halfway through round two of treatment for this forsaken THRUSH!
  

  Baby girl is clearly SUFFERING. Good thing I bribe her with sweet potatoes -- that she inevitably gets all over her face.

• Saad was here for two whole months and like all good things, it came to an end last Thursday. That’s also partly the reason this blog has withered away. You see, his departure date sneaks up on us –here we are just minding our own business and soaking up his presence when BAM! There’s only a week left until he goes back. We try to do all sorts of family fun stuff/ lounging around in each others’ company during that time, which also means little to no distractions, ie news reading (for him) and self-delcared important internet browsing (for me), including blogging. So essentially, YOU CAN BLAME SAAD and his cruel, cruel departure date attacking us like that.
  • It’s always the worst part of the year whenever he has to go back, but hopefully we’ll be smelling each other’s morning breath in two (if we’re lucky) to 10 week’s time. (You can thank Aiman for this morning breath reference since we’ve watched the Shrek trilogy umpteen +1 times in the last few weeks. He LOVES the movies and we are all completely Team Ogre, so morning breath is the Ogre way to express that sentiment. Just FYI, is all.)
  • It’s been hard playing catch up since he left. In the previous post I mentioned he would come home for dinner and bedtime every night, so going through the bedtime routine along for both kids literally left me out of breath the first night after he left, although it could have something to do with those demonic cookies (scroll down).
• Another excuse legitimate reason this blog was thrown to the curb is that there was a bigger bully on the block who goes by the name, Medical School Personal Statement. He was fierce and totally kicked my butt. I had him under control at first, back in November, and had him all written beaten up. Then! Then that jerk came back with a vengeance and a low blow — my pride. Yeah! He took my pride and spat on it as he said “THIS ISN’T GOOD ENOUGH” and then ran away to the desktop trash can. So I worked out (my only “workout”) and battled him in the last few days, ending this feud once and for all last night. So you see, I had to invest what little writing fighting power I have and get this little “problem” taken care of.

The Extraneous Part(s):

• We rung in the new year with a late night barbecue and our good family friend, Bukky, over. We’ve known Bukky and her family since our Sunday School years and she’s essentially my sister, Sieda’s, “Summer.” We love that girl and we love her in-law-school-brain, which came in handy because (next point):

• Someone drove into our backyard on new year’s day. Sieda, Bukky, and I were on our way to go paintballing (OMG! NEXT POINT!) with a group of girls, and right as we were leaving, we heard a crash in the backyard. My mom looked out the back door and screamed my name — a scream that still makes my blood stop and my heart pound right through my chest. That’s when I knew something serious just happened. When we got to the site, we were all like, “Well, look at that. There’s a freakin’ car in the backyard” and the driver was unnaturally calm about it. My guess is that she was exhausted from work and simply dozed off because no one ran into her and it’s unlikely to just lose control of your vehicle unless it’s possessed, but then who keeps/drives a possessed car, you know?

• Paintballing. I love it. Wait, no I LOVE IT. That’s more like it. Now, you have to understand that I take it very seriously. The group I went with were all newbies, including myself, but it was obvious none of them had ever prepared for a Zombie Apocalypse and were far too forgiving to the other team. Also, you have to respect the fact that once you’re out of ammo, you’re vulnerable, and effectively OUTof the apocalypse. Would you forgive a zombie? I DIDN’T THINK SO. STAY LOW AND RESERVE YOUR AMMO.
  • Paint ball shots hurt so much, I just can’t describe it. My sister and I were on opposite teams, so you know we had to get each other first. It was mutually a personal objective and just plain personal. Well, she got me in my right arm while someone else shot at my left. She doesn’t know it, but in the midst of fire, I played mean, but behind the barrels? After she and someone paintballed me in the arms? I nearly cried in pain, hugging myself as I waited for the adrenaline to numb the pain. Paint balls hurt so much, people. So much.
  • The next day, I was not only branded in six solid bruises, but sore beyond my mind. Because I play hardcore? Perhaps. Because it was the only thing close to a workout I had in a very long time? Perhaps-Perhaps.
  • We went to Ci-Ci’s for a quick and easy dinner afterwards and I was leaking breast milk through my shirt, visible for all the restaurant to see. Did I care? Covered in dirt, paint, and god knows what that giant smudge of green-ish brown gunk on my thigh is? NO, BECAUSE I JUST SURVIVED A ZOMBIE APOCALYPSE. I sure will have an entire pizza and all of my dessert because I earned it, thankyouverymuch.

That concludes the update blabber, but wait THERE’S MORE.

More of my cynical conspiracy-theory wrapped rambling, that is. What did you expect, now?

So in an explanation worthy of another post, I’ve laid of coffee for a few weeks. I’ll go ahead and admit there are personal benefits so far, one of which is the ability to Just Say No. Like the way they teach you in school to Just Say No to drugs, only I’m not addicted, but I won’t refuse a good cup done right and fancy –perfect blend of creamer, sugar, and whipped cream with a sprinkle of cinnamon or chocolate. Who says no to that?

Luckily, only Starbucks does it as fancy as I’d like or care to do myself, so it’s been easy to refuse the “plain” variety, without any of the above.

But I cheat. I’ll drive up to Starbucks and ask for a DECAF something or another and feel so clever. I just enjoy the taste! It’s only for the taste! And maybe the placebo effect, even if I know it’s decaf.

credit via jasonlove.com

So anyway, I always have a secret fear that they forget to make it decaf and I chug back a fully-caffeinated beverage, which will make me stay up to odd hours of the night and between the kids’ sleeping patterns and my accidental caffeination, I’ll never experience sleep EVER AGAIN.

Today I got a venti iced coffee with the works –whipped cream and all that jazz — in decaf, of course. But it’s 3am and I am WIDE AWAKE (when I drafted this post, at least). Totally wired, even. I mean, I could even work out or something right now, but I’m not fooling anyone; I definitely won’t workout.

No, I’m not obsessing over the possible caffeine coursing my veins, fueling my insomnia. It wouldn’t be that venti iced coffee with the works. No. NO. The barista wouldn’t do that to me.

It could be PMS-induced insomnia, which I will gladly take because at least my PMS comes in a grande or less*.

*That’s a lie; my PMS totally comes in a trenta (Starbucks largest, ginormously gross-sized 31-oz size). That was the part you’d probably not care to know, but welcome to the risk of reading my blog.