So I’m in the middle of reading an article/story about…wait for it…the hopeless romantic, Richard Nixon.
It is totally rocking my world. Maybe that’s not quite the correct phrase. Let me try again.
It is completely upsetting my equilibrium. How’s that? The ossicles in my inner ear are beginning to hurt from the sheer mind-blowing ascertations that Richard Milhaus Nixon was a hopeless romantic and wrote reams of letters to his wife in flowery, Romeo-esque prose. Seriously. I feel like I’ve just completed a 1260 on the snowboard slopestyle run in Sochi followed by a triple lutz, quad combination on the ice.
Methinks I’ve spent a mite too much time perusing the 2014 Olympics coverage. Which, by the way, is quite frustrating on the computer. Maybe it’s just me. More than likely it’s just me, but damn this is difficult trying to find out information about what’s happening over there in not-so-like-Siberia Russia.
Climate change baby, climate change.
And if you’ve got an issue admitting that climate change is a thing, I suggest you take a look at Georgia. Dude, they’ve got some serious winter going on down there. Ya know? And here, here where it’s supposed to be bitter cold (Three years ago at this time it was a couple of weeks of 40 below zero weather–I kid you not–we got stuck in the driveway one night–wow, that was a story. Maybe for another day though.)–anyway, here where it’s supposed to be all cold and ice and winter and mountains and skiing and, well, you get the picture, the forecast for the next couple of days? Rain. Yes, you read that correctly. Rain. As in “raindrops keep fallin’ on my head…..just like the time the man was too big for his bed…do do do do doooo….”
Wow. This whole Richard Milhaus Nixon revelation has seriously fried the circuits in my brain. The neurons are absolutely haywire. The synapses must be crossing. This cannot be good. Don’t cross the streams baby. Don’t cross the streams.
Course, on the other hand, it’s almost like I drank a bottle of wine and am happily “singin’ in the rain, just singin’ in the rain. What a glorious feeling, I’m happy again.”
So thank you Richard Milhaus Nixon. You’ve put a smile on my face and a spring in my step. Though that spring could really be the results of attempting the triple salchow, triple lutz combination on the ice outside the garage earlier this morning. (No, don’t worry about me. I’m fine. Really. It was just a tiny, little, eensy, weensy, teeny, itty, bitty fall. What with all the spring thaw going on around here, the solid snowpack has now become a dangerous combination of slush on top of ice. Not good, not good.)
I’m going to go finish reading the story about the lighter, more friendly side of President Nixon. It promises to be a totally enlightening read, that just might restore my faith in mankind. Might, I say. Just might.