Okay, I'll admit it right up front: I've never been a huge fan of cycling. The Tour de France went on for decades and I neither knew nor cared about it. And I know Lance Armstrong is a bit of an arrogant birk, but this? This is bullshit.
From the moment he won, the French just couldn't stand it and started accusing him of doping. All the times he won or placed, they accused him of doping, but the blood tests never showed anything. I find it quite interesting that France (and Belgium) dominated the race until the mid-80s, and have not won it since. Lance was just the most obvious target. I'd watch out, if I were you, Miguel Induráin, you have the next most numberous wins.
What a crock of shit, USADA, that you should buy into France's pettiness.
Monday, October 22, 2012
Thursday, October 04, 2012
Me again.
I finally, after some yammering with Start Logic and the Google blogger forum, have my URL back. Not that I expected, you know, droves of my readers to defect to Dooce because they couldn't find me, but my Web address is out there in a few places. Of course anything that was linked to a specific post is now jiggered, but oh well.
So to my army of readers, I apologize. //sarcasm
In other news, I feel incredibly like...not working. At least not at work. I'd rather be dusting at home than doing anything at work. That's pretty sad, considering how many people need jobs and you know...I actually like the people I work with (I have one overly excitable, loud Alabamian and one overly loud Detroit...ite?--both of whom I could gladly chuck water balloons at on a daily basis, but they're okay sorts at the end of the day), and they like and respect me...something new for me, lol. And what I do is important, even if any well-trained, fairly intelligent monkey could do it. But it's not really the job or the people, it's the fact that I've been working for almost all of 42 frippin' years. Okay, subtract a couple for being an actual, honest-to-goodness housewife and mommy 1971-73, and it's 40.
It seems like 60.
I'm ready to retire, I'm ready to do things *I* want to do, even if I have to have a part-time job to help pay for things (the retirement pay, at least until I'm old enough to collect Social Security [that is if the fucking Republicans don't screw me out of that], is not enough). I want to paint, journal, sew, clean, decorate, paint rooms, draw, garden, mosey... I'm tired of "Miss Naaaaaannn, can you...." whatever it is they think I can pull out of my ass this time. Little do they know, it's all smoke and mirrors. *sighs* God love 'em' even though I like all of them, I could walk out tomorrow and not look back.
I dream about it...I fantasize about it, about winning the Texas Two-Step so I could have enough to pay off our bills, buy a decent car for R, and do the repairs on the house before it falls in around our ears.
I moved a bunch of 70+ year-old Fortune magazines we have in the office (about a four-foot high stack of them) from a lateral filing cabinet to some "Very Useful Boxes" like these yesterday so the two afore-mentioned loud mouths could use the drawer for personnel records, and today my hands are just killing me. I'm quite sure I'd go thru a lot of this at home, too...but there I can kick back, pet a cat, and swallow a half-bottle of ibuprofen--or vicodin--and chill. Here, I gotta keep working. Bah.
Oh, whine over. I need to do some webby maintenance.
So to my army of readers, I apologize. //sarcasm
In other news, I feel incredibly like...not working. At least not at work. I'd rather be dusting at home than doing anything at work. That's pretty sad, considering how many people need jobs and you know...I actually like the people I work with (I have one overly excitable, loud Alabamian and one overly loud Detroit...ite?--both of whom I could gladly chuck water balloons at on a daily basis, but they're okay sorts at the end of the day), and they like and respect me...something new for me, lol. And what I do is important, even if any well-trained, fairly intelligent monkey could do it. But it's not really the job or the people, it's the fact that I've been working for almost all of 42 frippin' years. Okay, subtract a couple for being an actual, honest-to-goodness housewife and mommy 1971-73, and it's 40.
It seems like 60.
I'm ready to retire, I'm ready to do things *I* want to do, even if I have to have a part-time job to help pay for things (the retirement pay, at least until I'm old enough to collect Social Security [that is if the fucking Republicans don't screw me out of that], is not enough). I want to paint, journal, sew, clean, decorate, paint rooms, draw, garden, mosey... I'm tired of "Miss Naaaaaannn, can you...." whatever it is they think I can pull out of my ass this time. Little do they know, it's all smoke and mirrors. *sighs* God love 'em' even though I like all of them, I could walk out tomorrow and not look back.
I dream about it...I fantasize about it, about winning the Texas Two-Step so I could have enough to pay off our bills, buy a decent car for R, and do the repairs on the house before it falls in around our ears.
I moved a bunch of 70+ year-old Fortune magazines we have in the office (about a four-foot high stack of them) from a lateral filing cabinet to some "Very Useful Boxes" like these yesterday so the two afore-mentioned loud mouths could use the drawer for personnel records, and today my hands are just killing me. I'm quite sure I'd go thru a lot of this at home, too...but there I can kick back, pet a cat, and swallow a half-bottle of ibuprofen--or vicodin--and chill. Here, I gotta keep working. Bah.
Oh, whine over. I need to do some webby maintenance.
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