I can’t say I have many accomplishments in my life other than the whole “raising well-adjusted kids and continuing in a successful marriage” thing. Yes, I have that Master’s degree on my wall (“wall” meaning “in a cabinet”), but it doesn’t take a Master’s degree in anything to sit at home and plot World Domination. So at this point in my life, it’s just that one thing I did back then that I can count as an accomplishment. And really, if I can do it, anyone can do it.

My currently-running accomplishment, other than earning that Master’s degree and the whole kid/marriage deal, is having not eaten a single bite of McDonald’s food* in over 6 years.

Not a french fry. Not a Big Mac. Not a very delicious little cheeseburger.

Nothing from McDonald’s.

I do eat fast food, but my consumption of Frankenfood has diminished over the last few years to about twice a month (not including Chick Fil A, cause that’s real food, dammit).

It’s more than just not eating McDonald’s. It’s a test of my will-power. Can I do this thing I set my mind to accomplishing? How long can I go without eating the most popular food in the world?

I’m also taking my girls on this journey of No McDonald’s, and so far, save for a bite of a chicken nugget or two that my friggin mother gave them (yes, I’m still peeved, 1 year later), they have never had a McDonald’s meal in their respective 6 and 4 years of life.

Seriously.

I don’t even think they know who Ronald McDonald is.

I KNOW.

They’re not deprived of Frankenfood. They enjoy Taco Bell cheese rollups, Burger King chicken crowns & apple fries, and they love Chick Fil A (again, not Frankenfood) chicken nuggets.

But this, my friends, I feel is my biggest non-education-related and/or familial-related accomplishment of my life to date.

How much longer can I last in my quest to not eating McDonald’s food? I’m down 6 years and counting.

We’ll see.

__ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __

*PS – Ice cream doesn’t count as “food.” Yes, I have eaten a McDonald’s sundae or two, and a McFlurry or two, in the last 6 years, but those don’t count. Hey, it’s my accomplishment; I get to make the rules as I go. Neener.

So it’s said, when your heart goes, your brain goes.

Or maybe just in my headcase.

Since my heart is still wonkified, my brain has decided to catch up and lower the bar. I can pretty much do nothing more than sit here and send out High on Klonopin Tweets that bring out crazy-heads.

Yeah.

The amount of work I have waiting for me to complete is pretty much almost overwhelming. But, I twatter on Twitter and spend shameful hours searching for the perfect bag/purse/carry-all/SLR holder deal.

And then I buy one that’s too small for my womanly needs.

So, like the freak noodge that I am, I spend even MORE countless hours searching for even the more perfecter bag.

I FINALLY ordered her today, and if she doesn’t exceed my every expectation that I’ve put on her for the last 2 months in my quest for THE! PERFECT! BAG/PURSE/CARRY-ALL/SLR HOLDER DEAL!, I may cry.

I better have some Klonopin and a cupcake on call for when the overnight package arrives. You hear that Zappos? It better come tomorrow. (please? i want nao.)

Isn’t she pretty?

Do you think she’ll love me? Do you think she’ll be everything I ever wished for? DO YOU THINK SHE’LL BE A HE AND BE MY FABULOUS GAY BOYFRIEND?

I need one.

I ask this of the world and universe and sweet sweet Baby Jeebus and Oprah: please make this bag work for me. Really, it’s the little things in life I need. I have my health, my bodily faculties, my strength, healthy children, a roof over my head, a husband who loves me. All I need right now is a few thousand dollars and this bag to be The One.

Otherwise, Twitter and my email inbox might catch on fire tomorrow when I’m high on Klonopin, apparently dragging out lunatics with my powerful gravitational pull of insanity.

(I wish this was sponsored so I’d still have $129 in my bank account.)

((I mean, it was only $29. NOT $129. I got a special deal. SILLY ME! I’d NEVER EVER spend that kind of money on a purse!))

(((Apparently I spend money when my brain and heart aren’t in proper working order.)))

The week started off innocently enough.

I went out to dinner with my skank-whore friends to one of my favorite cheesecake-themed restaurant. I ate too much, took stupid pictures, and scared a cute waiter boy into being gay. Pretty much a normal night out with the teacher-friends.

I woke up Monday to my credit card number being hacked by some jackhole on the internet. I spent the morning begging asking for monies from my mama to cover me while I figured out the logistics of paying for stuff and closing out the card. The perfect Monday, I’d say!

Tuesday was normal-ish, until I realized that my heart had been going pitter-patter since the night before and not for any good reason like Edward swooping me off to the woods to make out. I’ve felt the flutter and strong heart-beat before, but not for this long and not coupled with dizziness. So, like any paranoid idiot trying to prove she’s not a hypochondriac, I didn’t say anything. Until I did when I mentioned it in passing to my personal wet nurse, Aunt Becky.

She, of course, went ape-shit and told me to call my doctor right away. Me being the eternal optimist, refused because THERE’S NOTHING WRONG WITH ME! WHY WOULD YOU SAY THAT?!?

Then she threatened me with hot pokers to my eyeballs over the internets, so I called my doctor. Mind you, this was 5 minutes before I needed to leave to be only 2 minutes late to pick up my girls from summer camp. The doctor says “OH, YOU’RE A LOSER AND WE CAN’T SEE YOU UNTIL TOMORROW, NERD! Go in to the urgent care clinic, asshole.” Or something like that.

We’re lucky enough to have an urgent care clinic that will notify me when the doctor is ready to see me (SCORE!), so they called me when I was in the car on my way to them anyway after I got the girls. The nurse on the phone freaked the FUCK OUT when I mentioned anything heart-related, so she said her doctor is telling me to go straight to the regular ER.

“But I don’t waaannnaaaa…” I really said that to her. I’m a grown up, I swears.

So, with my girls begging for ponies or some shit, I drove to the nearest hospital with my wonky-feeling heart, and thanks be to the wee baby Jeebus, they saw me within 5 minutes of us arriving.

Something about “heart attack” and “arrhythmia” or other life-threatening terms were being thrown around while I’m all, “I’m sure it’s nothing. I can be going home now, yes?”

I was starting to think I wasn’t a hypochondriac after all. Hooray! Also, wait… that means…

The nurse asked if someone could come get my girls. Because THAT’S always a fun call to make to your husband: “Oh, by the way, I’m in the ER and you need to come rescue your children from the bleeding and the heart monitors and the urgent care happening around here. kthxbai.”

I kind of got alarmed when the one nurse whispered something to the other nurse when she showed her my EKG results. Whispering when you’re in a medical crisis is never a good thing.

Long story short, I was admitted for observation and tests to make sure I wasn’t having a heart attack (I wasn’t) and to try to figure out what was the cause (never happened). We figured I’d only be there for one night, but because of an asshole cardiologist who didn’t want to take his sweet time looking at my echocardiogram results (that, by the way, I was awoken at 3 IN THE FRUCKING MORNING TO GO HAVE DONE), he booked me for a second night of hospital bed vacation.

The outcome? After 48 hours in the hospital that included a moaning patient roaming the halls being coaxed by a kazoo at 7am, I have no actual diagnosis and no plan of figuring out what the crap is wrong with me. I’m still having the same symptoms as what put me in the hospital, but since Dr. Cardio-Asshole only spend 2-1/2 minutes with me during my 48-hour stay, I have no concrete direction for how to help myself.

I do however, at the behest of my on-call doctor at the hospital, have a new cardiologist I’m scheduled to see on Wednesday. I hope to get more of an answer than the “it’s not diagnosable, it’s “just” an irregular heartbeat, you won’t pass out” information Dr. Cardio-Asshole gave me.

Until then, I’m laying low and feeling wonky, but that’s typical me.

OR, you can just think of my fluttering heart beating irregularly for you (yes, YOU, not THEM… YOU).