Random bits.

Two hours later, I think my ear tips have thawed. Il fait très froid. I mean who needs Botox when the wind blows cold enough to freeze your face? (Not that I'm considering Botox or anything since I feel botulism is best left to dented cans of green beans, but ...) Hollerin' at the Sun You so deceptive Warmly you gleamed through my blinds Sunshine is not heat.

It's s'posed to snow again tomorrow. I'm so blasted tired of this crap that I'm going to make some sweet tea just to feel like I'm still Southern in some respect. Shoveling oneself out of things so one can get to work makes that slave-to-the-job feeling all the more acute.

Recently I shared my feelings with co-workers who were complaining about having to shovel themselves out of the snow and ice. Nevermind that I totally dismissed their comments as baseless whines -- seriously, you're from here. Get used to it already. You should feel about snow shoveling what Dick Cheney apparently feels about heart attacks -- eh, no biggie.

At any rate, folks were drolling about how pointless it is to try and come in to work on days when it's nasty on the roadways citing how the commute itself would virtually equal an 8-hour work day. I politely informed them all that they could forget about seeing me schlumpin' in all frosted and pissed. My state was the first to secede the Union (granted, it was for a reason that is ironic to my person), but in honoring my so-called heritage I will proudly be the first to secede from coming into work.

Since I'm already talking about commuting I just want to send a message-in-a-bottle-like shout out to the jackass that drives 55 mph in the far left lane every SINGLE morning on 476:

Some day sucker, this object in your rear view mirror is gonna appear hella closer than it already is. And on that bright sunshine-y day, when you thought you hadn't seen nothin' yet, I'mma reach through your back window and smack the shiznits out of the back of your head -- even if it means I have to crash into you to do it. Get the kcuf over already! Gracious.

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In other news, yes 'tis I who has finally mastered the making of the omelet. It was a long time coming, but this was one patiently salivating grasshopper (or praying mantis to best represent SC). Damn tasty if I may say so myself. I am proud.

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I'm sure you've all heard by now, but in another crucial blow to Strom Thurmond’s segregationist legacy (the first being the revelation that Essie Mae Washington was Strom’s daughter), it was revealed that Al Sharpton’s roots were linked to those of Strom Thurmond thereby yielding one hell of a twisted family tree. Maybe I’ll call it the Jowl Tree. I, of course, am now even more curious about the strange coincidence that I’d shared with y’all previously:

I mean, if Strom and Al have a connection and my mama's maiden name was Williams, I'm thinking I could be in the mix somewhere, no? It's a series of scary thoughts really that reels off something like this:

Danita and Strom. Strom has jowls. Is Danita gonna have jowls? Does Danita already have jowls and she is just not aware? Is there a jowl gene? Are there cremes to diminish the appearance of jowls?

We're both from South Carolina. Will I live to be that old? Will my eyebrows be that jacked up in the future?

Strom kinda wears his hair like Al (or vice versa)? But Danita just stopped getting her hair relaxed. Will fate step in and unkink the nappiness? Am I gonna be an old lady with ill-colored hair ... like, orange hair?

Am I gonna become a politician? If so, can I run on the Blaxicrat ticket thereby reflecting my obviously muddled heritage? Are 24-hour filibusters in my future wherein I shall gesticulate authoritatively and pontificate on the perils of "innagrashun?" And in the strangest twist of all, when I'm old and ruling the Senate with my stern be-jowled face, will I be able to get away with being extree friendly with, I dunno, let's say young white males to keep it directly proportional?

If the answer to any of the questions above is "Yes," please know that for the next 20 minutes I will be violently shaking the Magic 8 Ball imploring it to reveal an outlook not nearly as good.