I want to eat your brains, but only if they're organic and grass-fed.

Ugh.  I just ate a tuna salad sandwich...in bed at 9:30 p.m.  I'm disgusting.  It wasn't even a good tuna salad sandwich!  It was made with the lite, fall-apart, "smart" white crap that you can't use with peanut butter because it will shred as soon as the knife hits it.  Plus, I used reduced fat mayo and way too little pickle relish.  But did that stop me from finishing it?  Of course not.  I choked down the whole thing, even with too big of bites that it gave me that heartburn feeling where it feels like the entire sandwich is lodged in your chest somewhere and it would have to be surgically removed later.

But aside from my horrific recipe, I still ate a freaking tuna sandwich IN BED at 9:30 at night!  What's wrong with me?  I kicked my own ass to the gym last night and tortured myself for an hour long cross-training session with an instructor who insisted on listening (and singing along) to Nickelback.  Seriously?  Nickelback?!  That's the worst band in the history of music--all of music, even in the animal kingdoms.  I'd rather listen to howler monkeys or a cat in heat.  Or a choir of howler monkeys and horny cats in an ensemble.  I wanted to cry, from the pain in my legs and my ears.

That's all.  I just had to share how nasty I've become since my husband went to Asia.

Today's subject line quote is from How I Met Your Mother (2005 TV Series)
Episode: Sorry, Bro (2009)

Oh, loneliness and cheeseburgers are a dangerous mix.

I'm alone again.  Dom left last Thursday for a 5 week cruise around the Pacific, and I realized that I haven't spoken to another adult since Friday.  I'm so popular, you know.  Anyway, that's a whole lot of children time this weekend.  In fact, Michael hasn't slept in his own bed since Thursday night. 

The first night, he snuck in sometime after midnight, claiming to have had a bad dream.  The following evenings, I just gave up after a few hours of battling.  Last night I set up a pop tent on my floor.  It was kind of like having privacy, only with more snoring.  It doesn't so much matter because I'm laying awake at night anyway.

I've been wondering about some crazy what-ifs.  If I had an aneurism/heart attack while my husband is away--which it's likely, because all of this stress will probably kill me someday soon--I don't think anyone would realize for a good week or two.  Wouldn't bother me any; I'm dead in these scenarios.  But what about my kids?  I don't want my almost 4 year old having to survive off of the granola bars I keep on the counter top while my 9 month old fashions a rope to climb out of her dirty diaper and a blanket just to climb out of her crib.  The only supervision they will have is my retarded Labrador and his manipulative Beagle cohort (who is completely driven by the desire to eat, by the way).  My children will be raised by dogs, only to be eaten by them!

So I stare at the ceiling, trying to escape my inevitable doom of dying in my sleep and end up too tired to take care of my children properly anyhow.   What a world.

Today's subject line quote is from The Simpsons.