So Littlest Pet Shop has taken over my home. And I'm friggin' pissed.

I can't take it anymore.  The little toys.  The Littlest Pet Shop, The Polly Pockets, The Legos, The Knex.  You name it, they are taking over my home.  I tried to pee in the eldest child's bathroom and had to remove a whole Littlest Pet Shop habitat before I could even lift the lid of the chamber pot which is a commode which is a TOILET!  I stepped on a chameleon and a lion or a puppy or a kitten not sure which...anyhoo.

I am sick of the little toys and this is coming from a woman who played with Smurfs.  You know the Smurfs.  LOVED THEM!  My mom still has my Smurfs.  Papa Smurf, Smurfette.  She's got 'em.

Now if I threw them all over the Master Bedroom floor and tried to navigate over them during my 4:00 a.m. pee (face it we all do it) I would be PISSED. Clearly there is some connection between my urinary habits and little toys and if anyone out there is studying something like this, I could be available for some sort of paid study group.

In the meantime, the little toys are taking over.  There is no rule, no organization, no hope.

Smurfette, help me now.

Is my irrational fear holding me back?!

I have an extremely irrational fear.  It crept up on me when I was about 35 and has becoming increasingly more present now that I am the big 4-0.  It's a weird one I tell ya' but I'm willing to share it.

I fear pumping gas.  I am certain that I will be that static fire statistic that they show pictures of on the pump.  You know the stick figure that sparks off an explosion at the tank because she wears fleece pants (i.e. snuggy pants) way more than she should.  And said snuggy pants are quite static-y.  Dog hair comes straight off the dog and attaches it self to these pants.  They bunch at the ankles because of the static.

So I have become that gas pumper who gets out of her car and touches her car.  Then I touch the trash can next to the gas pump.  Then I touch the post next to the gas pump.  Touch my car again.  Say a little prayer and then grab the gas handle.  OCD, Nay!  Maybe, okay, probably.

I have looked at the statistics.  The chances of such a fire or explosion are extremely rare (150 cases out of approximately 50 million fill-ups a day) but I'm still considering ditching the snuggy pants.  And not because they unflattering.  They are a fire hazard.

The Aboriginal People SHOULD be pissed. They are NOT having a gay old time.

Did you see it?  Did you watch the nonsense?  Oh my hell, the Russian Ice Dancing Team just pissed the shit out of me.  There has been some controversy over their costumes. Their costumes?  That's what we are talking about?  What about the actual routine? It sucked, sucked bad.  It was like the Flintstones gone bad! Did you see their facial expressions at the end?  These are adults and this is their job and they can consciously make those faces at each other and get paid to do it?  I know what you are thinking, Olympic athletes are amateurs, they don't get paid.  Hell ya', they do.  They are RICH!   And, how does the Aboriginal leader, whoever he may be have access to Ice dancing and the costumes and  routines that are being competed in International Ice Dancing?

I'm so confused.   The Russians and their Fred and Wilma outfits which were not well made and totally distracting have gotten a shit load of attention for their lameness.  The Aboriginal people are proud.  They should be, but they have an inside track to what's going on in Ice Dancing? Really?  They know what's going on in this arena?   Don't they live in the Outback with no T.V. no radio, no internet?  It's shocking!  I am so fucking confused.

I love the Olympics but it's got me all in a bunch.  I don't get who's who and what's what and what not?  I will continue to watch.  But WHAT UP!?  Off to eat a bloomin' onion, because that's the only thing that will make me feel better.

You like me, you really, really like me. Or not.

So I was wondering how to drum up some viewers?  listeners?  lookers?  voyeurs?  Whatever, just check me out?  Well guess what happened.  Met one. Met a viewer.  She recognized me.  Via my picture.  My really lame, self-taken picture.  Have another drink kinda picture.  She wasn't scary.  She was nice and normal and nice.

We talked.  I liked her.  I think she liked me.  It was cool.

So, there are three still three.  I love you three. Thanks, would you recognize me on the street?  I am memorizing your faces so that I will know you on the street.  I  must travel to see you but who knows, stranger things have happened.

Shout out to my followers, you make me happy!