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).

Who the crap cares about basketball?

OK, so maybe some of you crazies do, just like I care about football, but since I’m not a fan of any basketball unless it involves Dwight Howard cradling me like his sweet, sweet baby, I did my own bracket.

CAKE VS. PIE

Over at Jezebel (I’d never heard of them either), they’ve set up a very scientific system for determining the all-out winner of the age-old battle between confections. (I know that the uber HIGHlarious Hyperbole and a Half did her own cartoony Battle of the Noms last week. She is Awesome. I bow to her Awesomeness.)

Personally, if it were a “baked goods” battle, the brownie would have won out. But since this is Cake v. Pie, I had some more thinking and painful decisions to make.

There’s not an all-out winner. I can’t make my final decision.

Here are my thoughts on Round 1:

Clearly, someone lost their brains when they included Funfetti on the list. They already had Birthday Cake. How is Funfetti NOT Birthday Cake. stupid.

And Fruitcake? I guess they figure my grandmother may do a bracket.

So far, easy choices.

On to Round 2:

Come on. Wedding Cake? Sure, Wedding Cake is technically “cake,” but you can’t go to the store and BUY Wedding Cake. It snot It’s not available on any given late-night run to the bakery. That alone should kick it out of the running.

And Rhubarb? Without strawberries, there would be no Rhubarb Pie. They didn’t even list “strawberries” as part of the ingredients. Am I to assume make an “ass” out of “u” and “me” and pick Rhubarb because I think there MIGHT be strawberries? I SAY NAY.

Note regarding Pecan Pie: My mother makes the best Pecan Pie in the world. No competition. None. I don’t care what you say about your own Mama’s Pecan Pie, my Mama’s Pecan Pie is better. I’m going to go ahead and imagine the Pecan Pie to which they are referring is my own Mama’s. That will make a big difference in later rounds.

My belleh is growing into Round Three:

The choices are more daunting than expected. I’m a girl who needs details. SPECIFICS.  What FLAVOR Bundt Cake? What FLAVOR Cheesecake? This makes a huge difference. You can’t put up a chocolate Bundt Cake up against a German Chocolate Cake. The clear winner is chocolate Bundt Cake. But if it’s vanilla Bundt Cake? The clear winner is German Chocolate Cake. Just for the lack of specifics, I had to choose German Chocolate.

I can’t willy-nilly pick a Cheesecake over Cherry Pie. There’s only one “flavor” of Cherry – DONE. There are kajillions of Cheesecakes. Just look at any Cheesecake Factory Cheesecake menu. It’s a Book of Nom. Again, just for the lack of specifics, I had to choose Cherry Pie.

The Pumpkin Pie v. Pecan Pie battle came down to one factor: my internal excitement for said pie. I love them both. Both are made from scratch by my Mama. But if a gun was to my head, and that’s what it took, I’d pick Pecan Pie.

Fatty McEatsalot Round Four:

It comes down to

In the Cake arena: GERMAN CHOCOLATE v RED VELVET

As I age into a mature woman of 33, I’ve come to appreciate German Chocolate as a moist chocolate cake topped with gooey coconutty goodness. When done right, the German Chocolate cake can be an all-out winner. HOWEVER, if the cake is dry, it’s a complete fail.

90% of all Red Velvet cakes and cupcakes I’ve ever eaten have been yumyumyumyumyum delicioso.

In the Pie corner: PECAN v CHERRY

This is definitely a difficult decision. I get to have my Mama’s Pecan Pie twice a year, but when I do have it, it’s beyond.

Cherry Pie is for sure a good-to-eat dessert year-round, and with the right flaky crust, heavenly.

Sooooo…

Finally, Round Five:

WHAT GOES IN MAH BELLEH???

I CAN’T DECIDE!!!11!!ONE!!!

RED VELVET? OR PECAN PIE?

Seriously.

Friends, I need your help.

WHICH ONE DO I CHOOSE?

I really could never be a drag queen.

That shit is work. Not like, “You better WORK!” work. But, like actual work in prepping my body shaving and manscaping and buying clothes and stuff.

I’ve had the same makeup in my wee makeup bag for the last 6+ months. I have one color eyeshadow, one lipstick that I can’t even find, and one wrong-shade foundation.

That does not a drag queen make.

Not only would I have to slather on pounds of clown makeup just to leave the house, but I’d have to get a weave, take care of my hair, and actually fix it on a daily basis.

I mean, really. That’s just not possible.

I sit here in 3-days-out jeans, a t-shirt that says “I put the     in lazy,” my 4-days-out unwashed hair in a greasy ponytail, with leg hairs so long they’re starting to curl.

I’m pretty much living up to my t-shirt message, but I’m not living up to the challenges of a drag queen girl.

Now that we’re talking about clothes, where does a drag queen buy her clothing? I’m pretty sure it’s not Lane Bryant, Old Navy, or the bottom of my her clean laundry mound. I’m also pretty sure the ladies don’t wear frayed jeans and fluffy socks with their Sketchers.

OH! and the music. I’m definitely not up on club dance music. (Remind me to get a few Gagas, Lamberts, and something featuring Akon.) My teeny tiny rotation of 90s music will not be good enough for the club kids and/or hag crowds when up Doin’ My Thang! on stage.

The most important key to a drag queen’s success that I’m lacking? A fab name. My nickname in high school was Fro (dumb), and since then, I’ve not had any good nicknames and I don’t have the brain power to come up with a catchy drag queen name.

See? I’m a total drag queen fail.

Double fail? The shoes. I live in pretty much Sketchers and gasp Crocs*. Shoes with heels hurt like a mo’fo. Shoes with a heel AND platforms? Forget it. I’d bust my ankle in under 2 seconds.

It’s just not in my nature to be a drag queen, so please, let me live in peace as the schlumpy housewife mommy blogger barf that I am.

And then there’s the whole penis ordeal.

I have drag queen penis envy.

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What? I only wear the Crocs to Disney during the summer months. Don’t hate. Plus, I have foot issues. Back off, eh?