I’VE GOT A CASE OF EMETOPHOBIA: Look it up, if you don’t know

I love my kids tremendously, but I the one thing I absolutely despise, is kid vomit! Really, I despise vomit no matter who it’s spewing out of. I’m not talking about that sticky, egg-shell colored, almost sweet-smelling spit-up that dribbles from a newborn or infant’s tiny orifice.  I’m talking about that dreadful, chunky, bile-smell of regurgitated table food. Now, I know moms and dads are designed to be mentally tough, especially when confronted with unexpected situations and I consider myself to be pretty hardcore at times, but when it comes to vomit, I get weak in the knees! I’m not the only parent that has a weakness or two when it comes to our children. Not my husband, nothing makes that iron man flinch. Some parents may freak out when they see their child bleeding from a cut or scrape or break down emotionally when their child is teased or made fun of for being different. Plain and simple; I cannot handle vomit! Just the thought of it makes me squeamish.

During the day, my boys are cared for by a sitter, recommended to my husband and myself. The event in question was about a month ago, on an average day during the work week, nothing out of the ordinary. Once I had collected the boys and their belongings, we proceeded to drive the 7 minutes to our house. As I do every day, I asked my oldest son if he had a good day. He seemed fine, playful as usual, babbling a mile a minute and pointing to objects out the window. As we got closer to home, my son began to throw a crying fit in his seat. Desperately, hoping he wouldn’t wake his younger brother, I tried to console him and attempted at best to uncover his sudden irritability. Well, having to sit at several stoplights with an ear-splitting scream reverberating throughout the large vehicle, quickly became quite aggravating. I wanted to get home quick, fast and in a hurry, so I put a little petal to the metal and as safe as I could, managed to arrive home in one piece, but with throbbing temples.

I had managed to get my youngest out of the car, car seat and all, and get him into the house, quite surprised he was still knocked the hell out. I ran back out to the driveway to calm down Mr. Tantrum. I told him in my soothing mommy voice, “Stop crying okay? We’re finally home”. As though my words had an immediate impact on him, the crying died down. Quite impressed with my mommy skills, I began to unbuckle the seat straps to free his little body. That’s when he started to cough and proceeded to upchuck the boogie right then and there, covering his cool little Baby Gap leather jacket (given to us by his Auntie and cousin), his corduroy overalls, leaving a trace of the foul mess on his knock-off Vans. “Uuuugghhhh!!!” I yelled out in a panic. This only made the poor kid shed even more tears and he reached his arms out towards me to express his need for his mommy at that very moment, because he was still too young to grasp what the hell had just happened.

“So this is why you were crying because your tummy was hurting? I am so sorry”, I said sympathetically but with slight uncertainty. Just looking at the poor boy’s stained clothes and puddle of partially digested… Oh my…Was that hamburger meat I just saw? Ewwwww! The sight of the vomit made me cringe to the point of undergoing “bitter beer face” contortions.

I mustered what little courage I had, and removed him from the seat, completely aware, so as not to get the remnants on me. At one point, I encouraged him to walk in the house by himself with me following close behind. That didn’t work, he wanted desperately to be held, but my fear stood in the way. Horrible, I know. I’m pretty sure I looked like the biggest Miss Priss, as I slowly peeled his clothes off, one article at a time with just the index finger and thumbs of both hands; my face winced, stomach churned. At that moment, I wished I had some latex gloves; it would have made the clean up process considerably easier for me. As soon as he was stripped of his clothes, his mood improved. After he was dressed in a change of clothes, Mommy thought about her plan of attack for the pile of reeking clothes and the vomit-ridden car seat. The first thought that came to my head, which seemed the most rational at the time, was to simply throw the clothes away! But I soon realized, that was the easy way out and my mom would be highly disappointed in me for not being a tough-as-nails-mom. Once again, I pushed my fear aside and rinsed the clothes in the laundry room sink, all while continuing to use index fingers and thumbs like a little pansy! Once rinsed and thrown into the washer, the next duty was to tackle the car seat, and the mere thought caused chill bumps to protrude on my forearms.

Once downstairs, you better believed I looked underneath the kitchen sink for the oversized, heavy-duty, yellow dishwashing gloves to ease my nerves, but found not a one. I had to get a move on it since we would be heading out of town in a few short hours! So, I tried psyching myself up, “Man up, woman and get this over with! You gotta stop stalling, heifer!” That’s when I took control of the situation and grabbed the seat and began scooping the remains and washing them down the sink, all while holding my breath. Well, I didn’t really scoop the remains like I had wanted to. Instead, I used a paper towel and swatted the crap out of the chunky residue, trying my best to get the stuff down the drain and out of my weak little face. I even called my mom and whined to her that I couldn’t do the assigned task, that it was just too gross. With little patience, she replied, “Don’t be a fool! Stop being scary and clean the boy’s seat already. Come on now, you’re capable of handling a little throw up. This is what moms do”. She was absolutely right.

After wasting ¾ of a Costco paper towel roll on the seat belt straps, nooks and crannies, I took the cover off of the shell and threw it in with the soaking clothes in the washer. I opened up all the windows in the SUV in order for it to air out completely and even sprayed a dose or two of Febreeze throughout the vehicle.

While waiting for the seat cover to wash and dry, I gave both boys a bath and put them in some pj’s. I finished packing and loaded up the car, carefully packing things strategically like a bagger at a grocery store. When the car cover was dry and smelling like the fresh linen scent of the detergent, I put the seat back together so it looked brand-spanking-new. I actually had to stand back and look at it and nod my head in approval. Not because it came out so clean, but because I was somewhat proud of myself for not allowing the vomit to defeat me. Once the initial shock of the incident was over, I realized that the aftermath wasn’t all that bad, I just make mountains out of mole hills. When I put my mind to it, I can take on anything, even a fanatical fear like kid up-chuck.

A few hours later, once my husband arrived home, we got on the road for a little getaway. I was feeling pretty good because the vehicle was nice and clean, the kids were in their jammies asleep and my difficult task was long over. As I let out a sigh of relief, my little boy woke up and shouted, “Mommy, tummy!” Oh frick! Vomit – 2, Mommy – 0; Game over.

I AM NOT TOOTING MY OWN HORN!

It was a rainy, early work day morning, and I woke up feeling groggy with a slight headache, slightly similar to that unmistakable feeling of waking up the morning after getting your ass creamed by one too many Vodka-soaked, Jell-O shots,  resulting in a mean cookie tossing episode! I may be exaggerating, but I’m telling you, I felt pretty crappy from lack of sleep due to, not one, but two sick kids (another story for another time). 

After completing my morning rituals of teeth brushing, bathing, and finding something suitable to wear, I prepared to head out the door and make the long 40 minute drive to work -but not before taking what was supposed to be a quick hit of my so-called drug: Cafe World. I like to be out of the house by 6:40 am in order to arrive a little early before starting at 7:30 am. But of course, this ridiculous, life-sucking  “hobby”,  succeeded in warping my fragile, little mind to forget and lose all track of the time. As I looked at the clock, I muttered under my breath, “Damn it all to hell!” because according to my standards, I was going to be late.

So, I snatched up my bag, netbook and whatever else was in arms reach of me and got the hell of out dodge. It’s a good thing my husband and I have made arrangements for him to drop the kids off at the sitter in the morning, while I pick them up in the evening. Remember, he’s like a hard, over-worked Jamaican with three jobs!

Once I pulled out of the garage, I noticed it was sprinkling a bit, so I turned my wipers on low intervals. Now at this point, I must have been hearing things (better get my hearing checked since old age is upon me in just 2 short months; the dreaded 30!), because I could have swore I heard my horn honk faintly. Why is it that when you’re in a hurry, something always prevents you from getting where you need to be? Un-freakin'-believable! I was  riding on fumes and there was no possible way, I would make it twenty-some-odd miles to work! So, I hit up the nearest gas station and got to pumping.

I kept thinking to myself that something was rather off because my damn horn would honk out of nowhere! It wasn’t too loud, but it was loud enough to annoy the crap out of me! I’m no auto mechanic, but I did my best to try and attempt to solve the problem. I turned off the car alarm, stopped and restarted the engine, I even looked under the hood but to no avail. There was nothing for me to do at that point, so I braved the rain, which I love dearly, and hit the freeway. I drove at a moderate tempo to keep up with the flow of traffic, but panic set in and it quickly became an accelerated speed, dodging in and out of traffic, trying my best to avoid the quizzical stares of passerby's. But the faster I seemed to drive, the louder and more frequent the horn sounded! I’m sure you can imagine my embarrassment. Yes, I admit to having a bout of road rage here and there, so I am definitely not a driver that shies away from the horn when an idiotic, douche bag behind the wheel makes a boneheaded move. But in this particular case, I was mortified that my horn was going off at a moments notice and almost at a rhythmic pace, as though it were trying to keep the beat to that classic 80’s,  hip-hop anthem, Rapper’s Delight. Instead of bobbing my head to beat, I sunk so low in my seat (you may as well have called me Titanic) and threw the hood to my jacket up over my head so hard I’m sure I resembled the Grim Reaper.

After about 30 minutes into my commute, I exited the freeway and as luck would have it, I hit every damn red light imaginable! As if sensing my frustration, the horn beeped again for the hundredth effing time, “Beep….Beep, Beep”. As a swarm of vehicles surrounded me, I sunk down even further in my seat, praying the person in front of me wouldn’t look in his rear view mirror and get so aggravated, that the only way to relieve his irritation would be to pull the gun from his glove compartment and pump my horn-honking-ass full of hot lead.  Sitting there waiting for the light to turn green, felt like an eternity. Seriously, was this light going to change sometime this freaking century? I mean, damn, I may have sprouted a gray hair or roots waiting for that damn light to turn green. When it finally did, I damn near ran the gun-toting fool in front of me, right over.

The kicker of this little humiliating trip to work? I had to drive past three bus stops full of junior high kids! We all know what these junior high kids are like these days. I could just imagine what the hell was going through their minds at 7:20 in the morning, waiting for the bus and having some crazed lunatic drive by honking their horn every two seconds. I’m surprised the little rebels didn’t throw shit at my car! I didn’t even make eye contact or look in the direction of the little hellions. My main focus was to escape and make it out of bus stop row in tact.

Once I made it to the rear entrance of my job, I started to feel my body gradually release 40 minutes of built up tension. But then I remembered that the speed limit is 15 mph on the plant and my horn would be heard for miles at the 160 acre facility.

My horn blasted  repeatedly, which took me further to the edge, so I hit the steering wheel with my tight fist and yelled at the top of my lungs, “Shut the f--- up, you piece of shit!” I know, I know, I’m so vulgar and pretty and stupid of me to yell at an inanimate object, but at that point in time, I didn’t give a shit. It was one thing to be embarrassed in front of total strangers, it’s another to feel this same humiliation in front of co-workers who I see five days a week!

As soon as I pulled into my parking stall, I damn near shut the car off before I could place the gear into park. The rain had let up, so I really had no need to run into the building, but I did anyway, hoping none of my co-workers had reported me for being a public nuisance. Once inside, I told Alice, the Plant Secretary, about my adventurous morning. She, of course, died laughing, but with concern advised me to talk to one of the maintenance guys to see if they would be able to disable the horn. Since there are plenty of maintenance guys, I grabbed the first one I saw and repeated my unusual story to him and asked if he would be able to look at my car and work some black magic. “Sure, no problem, let’s go take a look at it”, insisted Roy.

He started the car, noticed the windshield wipers cycled and heard the horn honk once. It took him less than a minute, no joke, to  figure out, what was to me, a complex issue.

“Yeah, it’s your windshield wipers that are causing your horn to honk like that. It seems as though your wipers have been re-programmed with your horn”, he informed me.

“You’ve got to be kidding me! Wait, wait, wait”, I stammered dumbfounded. “That can’t be! How is that possible? Turn the wipers off and see what happens.”

Sure enough Roy’s claim was proved to be correct. With the wipers disabled, the horn did not blare.  This was weird. I’ve used my wipers before and this crap didn’t happen. That’s when it hit me. My oldest son had been playing in the driver’s seat of the car the previous evening, pretending he was driving - pushing buttons, starting and shutting off the engine – he was having a hell of a good time. Looking back, and remembering what Roy had said about the horn being re-programmed with the wipers, it only made sense that my sweet-angel-of-a-child, did God only knows, to cause me to have to drive in the rain for 40 minutes with a blaring horn, all because my damn wipers were on!!! I must be a damn fool, for not being able to put two and two together.

I called my husband at work to tell him about my morning ordeal and I think he was a little irritated with me for having a co-worker disconnect the horn. “There is no way in hell I can drive home in the rain with a horn that honks to the slightest movement of my wipers! I know how to reconnect the horn”, I told him impatiently.

“All I’m saying, is that cars were made with horns for a reason. Not for road rage, dummy; for safety”, he replied matter-of-factly.

What he said, went in one ear and out the other as I rolled my eyes, thinking to myself, “Whatever”, as though I were some annoyed teenager eager for the parent lecture to be over.

The drive home that evening was quite peaceful and a whole hell of a lot less stressful, without having  to duck and cover from the possible gun-toting-road-rage-fueled-drivers who may have been exceedingly aggravated, assuming that my ear-deafening-horn-honking-sequence was aimed at them directly.

No longer on the freeway, I had stopped at a red light in the right lane, about to make a left turn, when I glanced to my left to see a woman talking on her cell phone. Not a big deal, since we don’t have a  hands-free law, here in Nevada. When the light turned green, from my peripheral vision, it appeared the woman was about to make a U-turn since her turn was pretty tight. Once I had completed my turn, I just happened to look to my left and noticed this woman had turned into oncoming traffic! I had glanced quickly and caught sight of a school bus and began to freak out. To get this woman’s attention, I rammed the heel of my palm as hard as I could into the center of the steering wheel so the horn would snap her out of, whatever the hell this heifer was high on.   That’s when I remembered, “Oh shit! I don’t have a horn!'” I rolled my window down in a hurry and waved my arm frantically at her yelling, “Heeeeeyyyy! You’re going the wrong way!” Of course this bimbo wasn’t going to hear me, she was still on her freaking cell phone. I guess the oncoming school bus finally tipped her dumb ass off because I saw her brake lights light up the street behind her. Damn, I probably should have listened to my brainiac of a husband and reassembled the damn horn because every car has a horn for a reason. Better yet, from this point forward, I won’t ever let my almost 2 year old son, amuse the crap out of himself in the driver’s seat of my car to perform technical mishaps under my nose at my expense! From now on, I will take the bull by the horn (no pun intended)!!

*I DON’T EAT BABIES! Sleep Deprivation Part II

When will it stop? When will I be able to have a solid night of rest? This past weekend, my girlfriend gives me the answer to this lingering question of mine. Her answer was, “You have 18 years to go before you get any good sleep, my dear.”

Are you frickin’ kidding me?! 18 years, really? I don’t know if I can hang that long. I’m already losing my mind. My poor husband thinks I’m going to pull an Andrea Yates and drown our kids! So, I had another rough weekend. It doesn’t mean that I’m an unfit psychotic parent, or a post-partum monster, unworthy of caring for two little boys under the age of two.

My youngest is 4 months old today, but looks as though he’s 6 months. What can I say? We breed big babies! His teeth are finally in, so I thought maybe he would sleep through the night. Fat chance! This kid wakes up in an utter panic, crying like …uh, well, a baby. Does he stop crying once he’s been changed? No. He shouldn’t be hungry because mommy just made  a wicked concoction of formula, with a sh*t load of rice cereal. His nightly beverage was milkshake thick. So thick, I thought it would put him in a postprandial somnolence, (another term for a food coma; that drowsiness state following a meal). I tried giving him another bottle, but he didn’t want that. Impatiently, I looked him in his little sad, soaking wet eyeballs and asked him firmly, “What’s the problem? What do you want?” hoping to get some sort of telepathic response, even if he is only 4 months old.

He just wailed even harder at my lame-brained effort to read his little mind. So I went through the checklist: He’s not wet, he’s not  hungry. Maybe his bowels are in a knot since he hasn’t pooped all weekend. But wait, a minute. This little boy is spoiled and I was pretty sure I knew what he wanted at that moment. Boobs!!! So I sat in the infamous glider, that hallucinogenic rocking chair and put him on the boob. His crying stopped instantly. He was in paradise, in heaven if you will. Unbelievable! I just rolled my eyes. The breast fascination with men begins at an early age, I see.

Many times, my husband has had to come and rescue me from the midnight feedings. At the time, I think he’s rescuing me, but I’m sure he’s really rescuing my son from his delirious, annoyed mother. One night I was downstairs with our baby boy as he was yelling at the top of his lungs, totally dissatisfied. Nothing, made this little boy happy. Not the swing that usually rocks him to sleep, not a pacifier, bottle, boob, or dry diaper. I was in an absolute trance, staring in the darkness, looking like a institutionalized mental patient in the funny farm with this crying baby on my lap. I must have looked like the biggest crazed freak, especially to my husband when he realized the crying was getting increasingly louder. I’m sure he heard me yell, “Go to sleep already! I can’t take this anymore!” My patience was skating on thin ice. Come to think of it, my patience had long cracked the ice and sunk to the bottom, hard.

Out of nowhere, and in complete darkness, my husband traipsed down the stairs very carefully, rather unsure of what lurked at the bottom. As he neared the landing, he found his white-eyed-vampire-looking, wife with wailing baby in hands. He didn’t make any sudden moves, but rather looked at me hesitantly, for fear that I might pounce on him and puncture his neck with my ivory fangs, hoping to re-energize myself by sucking his sweet crimson blood.

Understanding how his wife functions on very little sleep, he  ordered firmly, “Go upstairs, right now and get some rest.”

But he was really thinking, “This crazy trick is off her damn rocker, he’s only four months old! What the hell does she expect him to do?!”

I followed his orders, which is rare because according to this man, I don’t  listen to him often enough, but I was at a point where I was on the brink of absolute insanity. Besides, I knew staying up in zombie mode would not benefit me or little man one lick, and he’s in pretty good hands with my-oh-so-patient-husband.

I guess as soon as my head hit the pillow, I was out and out for quite a bit. I just remember waking up and feeling as though I had slept for an eternity. My husband, also awake and in jovial spirits, decided that now we could laugh about the incident in question since it was technically behind us, even if the event just took place a few hours ago. He decided to make light of the situation and said laughing, “Man, you sure were crazy last night. I didn’t know what to expect when I heard you yelling. I thought you were going to put him in the oven and roast his little ass and eat him!'”

I couldn’t help but to laugh at what just came out of his mouth! Not only because he cracks my sh*t up, but because I could actually look back and see how the situation looked from his perspective. I wouldn’t go so far to say that I would have roasted the kid! I told him that I couldn’t do something so grotesque to my own flesh and blood, even if babies taste like chicken!

But seriously, as parents, most of us have to endure sleepless nights for several months until the child gets the swing of things. It’s not easy, but I have realized that my boys mean the world to me and there is nothing I wouldn’t do for them, even if it means giving up a few hours of sleep here and there. I know I may have my moments and complain, but it’s all in good fun. I love my little boy, even if he doesn’t get seven hours of continuous sleep. I know there will come a time, when he’s Mr. Grown Bones and I will wish he was that little teething, 4 month old crying in the middle of the night for his mommy.

* I had found this unfinished story in my saved drafts and realized it needed to be finished because it was a tale that needed to be told. Looking back at the incident, I’m glad I did!

THIS LITTLE JUNKIE WENT TO REHAB, THIS LITTLE JUNKIE SAID NO!

 

I am a bonafide, self-prescribed addict. I might as well have a belt or nearest shoe lace I can find, tied tightly around my bicep, just above my elbow, producing a raised and enlarged road map of throbbing green veins, that are more than ready to invite the sharp jab of a cold and filthy heroine needle. Okay, so I don’t use drugs nor have a tried to shoot anything in my tiny veins, unless you count the time I honestly considered pumping my veins intravenously with Dreyer’s Limited Edition-Slow Churned-Mud Pie ice cream.   Mmmmmmm… (drool). I’m no drug addict, but I almost know how such an addict feels!

My addiction or obsession, some may say, is absolutely and without a doubt ridiculous. But don’t be quick to judge me until you’ve been in my size 9’s. I bet sometime in your earthly existence that you have also had an obscure or radical obsession. You may think I’m talking about food since I’ve mentioned by weight issue, and it more or less deals with food, but I’m not the one consuming. I am ashamed to say this, but I am addicted to Cafe World hosted on Face Book! 

It all began, when I started a Face Book account at the impatient requests and snide remarks of my friends. I was still involved with My Space like the rest of my friends, which is more known for appealing to the much younger crowd as of late. I was getting tired of the overall dealings of the My Space site and eventually weaned away from it and all the incessant friend requests from utter strangers. I wasn’t about to get myself caught up in a similar site just to find long lost peers one week, only to never hear from them again the next. Well, my husband and I, together, joined the Face Book world and reconnected with long distant friends we had communicated with using My Space.

After I familiarized myself with the ins and outs of this new site, I began getting quite comfortable and actually liked it a whole hell of a lot better than that whack-ass-teeny-bopper-spam-filled My Space crap. Browsing through my “wall”, I came across a brightly colored Cafe World notification from a friend, mentioning they had learned to cook French food and she needed friends to try some of her newly crafted French onion soup. Hmmm…. this perked my food-loving interest, so you know I had to see what this was really all about! No sooner had a designed my cafe the first day, had I been hooked and trapped in this endless charade.

This crap had me so damn involved to the point that I would get up in the middle of the night, between nightly feedings and grab my husband’s laptop, hide in our closet and make sure my cafe was running smoothly. That meant making sure my food hadn’t spoiled, serving a variety of dishes to hungry and waiting customers and preparing more mouth-watering meals from the available choices in the virtual cookbook. Sounds a little overboard, I know, but this horrid little “game” slowly started to take over my already hectic life!

Now some addicts, whether it’s alcohol, drugs, porn, or food, may like to suck other people into their compulsive hell so they don’t feel alone in their self-destructing habits. It’s almost a buddy system, if you will. That old saying is definitely true; Misery loves company! So you know I recruited my husband to join me in this new found addiction. It was almost as if I was the drug dealer and he, some loner, junior high kid looking for an edge over his peers. My conniving, smooth-talking “dealer” ass sucked this fool right in – hook, line and sinker! His immediate thought was that he could prove to me that he could run a cafe successfully and much better than me, his little old wife. Oh hell no! Who did this fool think he was?! I am extremely competitive by nature, but even more so when it comes to this man and I will stop at nothing to beat him at whatever sport, board game or contest we participate in together. So by him challenging me, it only pushed me further and deeper into a chronic abyss, making it that much harder for me to ever return to the “sober” world.

This thing I have with Cafe World is a got-dang compulsion and a sick one at that. At work, I would periodically desert  my desk in a *clandestine manner, with my net book in its perfectly concealed black carrying case gripped tight by my cold, lifeless grip and escape to my secret hideout in order to dull my equally satisfying and unrelenting craving. Sounds like some poor, itchy crack-head, fien’ing frantically for a much needed hit of a delicious, taupe colored, juicy-nugget-shaped crack rock, doesn’t it? Picture me in some cold and dimly lit stairwell, trying to find a decent wi-fi connection, scrambling to find, in a brief amount of time, Face  Book’s, Cafe World. Once I prepared the necessary cuisine and served it to my waiting customers, my longing, itchy craving was put to rest and I was well enough to return to work, or at least until that freakin’ craving resurfaced. 

My husband was, and still is a lot smarter than me when it came down to this sad situation. He realized that Cafe World became too much for him, that it became too high maintenance and definitely too damn time consuming. He no longer liked the fact that he got up at two, three and four in the morning just to take food off the stove and prepare more meals  for the day. He also felt that if he were going to put a considerable amount of time into this “game” that he should at least get paid for it! My husband is smart because he understands that he joined Face Book to reconnect with out of touch friends and that Cafe World has no end and it will continue as long as you invest the time. Am I am idiot for not seeing this? This Cafe World crap is not a game! A game has an end and a winner is declared, even in that long-ass, seemingly never ending game known as Monopoly! Games are not classified as having an infinite amount of levels! But this sh*t? This is more of a psychotic hobby, which is a bit of an understatement. Calling it an obsession is simply too nice for words. I have become obsessive and compulsive with finding more neighbors, expanding my walls to make my cafe larger, holding more patrons, making more money,  getting to the next level to unlock another menu item, counter or stove, and leveling up quicker than my fellow Cafe World junkies.

I’ve mellowed out a bit. I used to ask my husband to check my cafe, which I have named “T-Licious”, while he was at work because I was no longer able to find that wi-fi connection that had worked so well before. I would call him in the middle of the day and tell him before he left for work, “If you get the chance, can you please check my cafe at 11:52 am. My Spitfire Roasted Chicken will be ready by then.” It finally got to the point, where my husband looked at me with this slightly annoyed pity in his eyes, shaking his head as if to say, “Hey dummy, when are you going to learn? Just give it up and get out while you still can! This isn’t what you signed up for, remember?” Almost everyday, he asks me what my goal is and what I’m trying to accomplish with this so-called “game”. I think it’s just my extremely competitive nature and the strong desire to continue because apparently, I’m not too tired of it, just yet. As my dad always told me growing up, “Never give up!”, although I’m sure my dad wouldn’t apply this motto to this particular situation!

So why do drug, alcohol, food, sex, and Cafe World addicts continue their respective over-indulgent patterns? It’s a vicious cycle: the need to feel good and comforted during the perfect or attainable high, only to hit the bottom and have that strong urge creep back to the surface and suck our weak minds back into the compulsive hell.

My advice to you, is to stay away from Cafe World or anything like it!! Don’t even try it, whether you think you can handle it or not, for fear you will be sucked into the meal prepping nightmare! You will dream about it, think about it 24/7, you’ll be calling your available spouse to go online for you to check your cafe, you’ll devote all of your free time and your not-so-free time to this horrid obsession! I should really follow my own advice, by checking into the same “rehab” my husband checked into and re-establish my Face Book priorities, but… Nah!  It’s always easier said, than done.

*Thanks Dad, for introducing me to that $10 word!