Holy CRAP people, you were *almost* obliterated by something REALLY big flying out of the heavens!
I swear to GOD it came *thisclose* to smacking you down, eating your lunch and spilling your latte!
I swear it! Like it was RIGHT there!
Whew, so glad is just barely missed us!
Phew! Asteroid’s passing was a cosmic near-miss
Wouldn’t want you to be FREAKED OUT or anything!
Frappin’ media…..why they gotta be fear mongers?
The weather outside yesterday was what they call “low cloud cover”. Low ceiling, gray clouds, occasional sprinkling rain.
This makes most people think, “brr, cold” and toss on all matter of arctic gear.
This is not true for me. Low cloud cover means the heat is held in and the drizzly rain means humidity.
See, I was brought up in New Mexico and my body has been attuned to be a convection cooled device. Or, more accurately, an evaporative cooled device. I sweat. The dry desert air slurps that up, thus cooling my rig and allowing me to continue on.
I’m attuned to this and it suits me just fine.
When it’s warmish and humid, I cannot effectively evaporative cool my hard working human mo-chine.
You can ask anyone who knows me, my internal temp tends to run a little hot anyway. The frosty pawed feline doesn’t favor me as a sleeping device because she thinks I’m nice, ok?
So what all this means is, even on a cloudy drizzly day like today, I don’t want anything to do with a jacket.
This tends to make the biddies and would-be work moms crazy.
“Aren’t you cold!?!” they shriek.
“Where is your jacket?!?!” they demand in harpy voices.
Look, I have a mother. She’s a fine, upstanding lady. She taught me to be self-sufficient. If you are cold, put on a jacket. If you aren’t cold, don’t. If you are cold and don’t put on a jacket, it’s your own damn fault.
Mom and I have been in agreement on this for years.
Yesterday, I was wearing a sweater dress with a long sleeved sweater over, tights and knee-high black boots. That is practically Nanook of the North for me, and yet, one of my menopausal coworkers eyed me up and down and screeched “Aren’t you cold!?!” because I was sans jacket.
It was close to sixty frapping degrees outside, but it was drizzly, so that must mean everyone should wear an overcoat.
An overcoat? Hell. No. I was hot in what I was wearing!
But if I had said to her, “Hey, you look a little hot, why don’t you take some clothes off” I would have been reported to HR.
It’s a bizarre up world out there, and I’m but a passenger on this carnival ride.
Image via FreeFoto.com
Especially a cranky Blues Queen.
I think most Americans either tuned in or saw coverage of Inauguration Day, right? There was that tender moment in the evening where the President and First Lady took to the floor to dance the first dance. (if you were under a rock January 20th, click here for video).
The song the first couple swayed to was “At Last”, performed by, much to my dismay, Beyonce.
Now, I like Beyonce enough for who she is. The lady who brought the phrase “I don’t think you’re ready for this jelly” into the world. Oh yeah, and popularized the word “bootylicious”. Sure, she’s a bard for our times. Or something. She wearies me, but I have a few of her tunes on my iPod. I can’t hate on a lady who writes so much of her own music.
On that special day, however, I personally winced when the camera panned to B and she began warbling the Etta James classic.
I haven’t voiced this much because everyone I seem to talk with was like “OH! That Beyonce was SO wonderful!”
No she wasn’t. It was a special moment, but it was made special not by the singer (no way) but mainly by the sentiments of a kick ass song written by Mack Gordon and Harry Warren.
Given the exhaustion of our country with the previous administration, the notion of “at last” really resonated. It was the perfect song performed by the wrong singer.
I wondered why, on that day, it wasn’t Miss Etta up there. She’s still got the pipes and she’s still out there performing.
In fact, on January 28th, she was performing in Seattle at the Paramount Theater.
Where she said: “But I tell you that woman he had singing for him, singing my song — she’s going to get her a– whipped.”
Oooh, it’s ON now! And I believe the 71 year old lady could do it too, with one bejeweled hand tied behind her tiny back.
She went on to say: “She has no business up there, singing up there on a big ol’ president day, gonna be singing my song that I’ve been singing forever.”
Not sure what set Miss Etta off since Beyonce has been slinging her crappy rendition of “At Last” all over the place, including at least once in the presence of Miss Etta.
I think what galled *me* the most about Beyonce getting up there, was that it was a publicity stunt! Seems Beyonce is working on a movie called “Cadillac Records” in which she portrays Etta James. What a great marketing chance on the national stage.
Opportunism. Great. Makes me like Beyonce even less.
: rolling of eyes :
Personally, though, I think Miss Etta is just ticked that Aretha Franklin got a shot on inauguration day and she didn’t. Just my two cents.
Speaking of Aretha, remember when Beyonce got into hot water with her too?
Doh!
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By the by, Miss Etta who has notoriously struggled with her weight is looking HOT right now thanks to gastric bypass surgery a couple years ago!
Go Etta!! Look at her tiny self!
Seems the shoe throwing way of expressing dissent has found itself a new audience in China.
From the BBC, the Chinese Prime Minister was giving a talk when an athletic shoe came soaring his way, but a bit offline, landing about a meter away.
At least the guy in Iraq had some arm on him, eh?
Anyhow, don’t let my employees know that this is in style. Some of the ladies on my team wear these tall clunky heels. That would cause bosslike hematomas and such. Ouch.
So is this now a trend? A latest fad? If so we’re all going to need helmets. ugh!
From eHow.com, the appropriate way to handle a four way stop. Emphasis added is mine.
Note that nowhere in that discussion does it say that if you drive a big Mercedes SUV, that means you get ahead of anyone, anytime.
It also doesn’t say that if you come screaming up to the four-way stop at an excessive speed, barely touch the brakes, and then hit the gas, you get to go first.
I don’t care how busy you are. Or rich. Or good-looking. Or that your car is nicer than mine. Mine is paid off. And I don’t mind rolling that hoopty patched up with bailing wire and duct tape. Bite me.
This message brought to you by my frustrating morning commute.
(no, I didn’t get in an accident, but it was close. Thank goodness for that brake job I got last week.)