It's been 3 months and now I'm kickin' it Katarina style.

">Okay,  Sorry for the absence.  Summer took over and then it really took over.   I know from all of the letters of complaint it's been challenging, you know,"missing me."  So whilst encouraging my offspring and then being totally pissed off because already they are cuter and way more athletic than we (the man in my life) could have ever been.  (Oh ending with a preposition.)   So a picture.  Katarina style.  Hanging out with a bunch of pre-pubescent youngsters, their parents and a bunch of 8 year olds.  Not to mention, cheetos, bagels, beef jerky and a shit-load of chlorine.  Luckily, no murder.   Just some basketball and some Hokey-Pokey.  It's Utah.

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It made me appreciate the people of Louisiana and also take 2 minutes to love the one your with. We survived.    I love swimming.  It's good people.  Plus some KFC, hilarious hormones and just a lot of sweat.  You'd love it too.

with love and a high five.

jen

So I mentioned one unreasonable fear. Today I found another.

Food disposal, sink disposal, waste disposal?  What do we call it?  What's the right word?  Well, I have yet another irrational fear.  Luckily my food disposal doesn't require that I fill that bad boy up with petroleum and cause a static fire.  I fear putting my hand in the disposal.  This morning the disposal was making a weird, grinding noise.  I hated the thought of sticking my fist in that hole.  (That sentence belongs on an entirely different blog, wow.)  But clearly something was wrong.

Why do I question reaching in?  It's not like my other hand is going to reach over and flip the switch.  It's not like some freak electrical malfunction is going to throw the switch and rip my hand to shreds.  It's my mom's fault.  She warned me. OVER and OVER.  Be careful. you'll lose your fingers. Maybe your whole hand.  GROSS!

Today, while reaching in and saying a little prayer I found limes from last night's cocktails.  Those should be in the composter you loser!  ooops.  forgot.  But I also found a torn up piece of "plastic who knows what" that totally doesn't belong in the composter.   Risked my life for that crazy piece of plastic.

Glad to be alive.  Still afraid of the disposal.  Be careful out there, especially in the kitchen.

After paying yet another Vet bill....this is how I feel. Warning. They say "fuck." Which is what I said after paying yet another vet bill.

I would like Foghorn Leghorn on my forehead please. And, by the way what do you charge for that?

I saw a van with curtains today, at the liquor store.  Vans with curtains make me nervous.  Who buys a van with curtains?  And then if you have a van with curtains, why do you keep them drawn?  It makes me nervous.

Face tattoos make me uncomfortable.  How bad do you have to hate your face to tattoo it?  What about a tattoo will make your face better?

Just a few things I am pondering.  Pondering....

I don't need Nostradamus, this makes it very clear to me.

So, whilst browsing a stupid catalog I received in the mail today I came across a little summin, summin'.

It is exactly why I know that the end of the world is near.  Very near.  Check it out please and then go build a safe room or a cellar or something.  Just build baby.

The Pet High Chair.

Satisfying a mutual desire for companionship, this high chair permits your dog or cat to accompany you at the dinner table. The high chair clips securely to tables up to 2" thick and its height adjusts without tools to elevate your pet to near eye level. It has a frame of powder-coated 5/8" steel tubing and its arms are rubber-coated so they will not mar table surfaces. By providing an alternative to sitting on your lap, running disruptively underfoot, or outright banishment, the chair assuages a pet (and its owner's) frustration, and promotes more refined behavior. The chair's 600-denier tan/brown nylon fabric cleans easily. Two tethers on the chair protect your dinner guests against any lapses in etiquette. Folds for convenient storage and travel. For pets up to 10 lbs. 10" H x 12" W x 9 1/2" D. (4 lbs.)

This thing cost $49.95!    Seriously?  This satisfies a "mutual desire for companionship"?  This worries mel  And some poor schmuck had to write that copy.  Oh dear Lord, the end is near. 

Forgive my sarcasm but you gotta be shittin' me?!

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.