In September of 2008, Hurricane Ike made landfall in Galveston, Texas with a Category 5 equivalent storm surge and winds up to 120 mph at its center. Originating off the coast of Africa, Ike was responsible for at least 195 deaths:
Of these, 74 were in Haiti, which was already trying to recover from the impact of three storms earlier that year… In the United States, 112 people were killed, and 23 are still missing.Due to its immense size, Ike caused devastation from the Louisiana coastline all the way to the Kenedy County, Texas region near Corpus Christi, Texas.In addition, Ike caused flooding and significant damage along the Mississippi coastline and the Florida Panhandle. Damages from Ike in U.S. coastal and inland areas are estimated at $29.6 billion (2008 USD), with additional damage of $7.3 billion in Cuba (the costliest storm ever in that country), $200 million in the Bahamas, and $500 million in the Turks and Caicos, amounting to a total of at least $37.6 billion in damage… The hurricane also resulted in the largest evacuation of Texans in that state’s history. It also became the largest search-and-rescue operation in U.S. history.
Besides the devastation to homes and infrastructure, loss of life, billions of dollars needed for repairs and damage to Galveston’s tourism, it was also an ecological disaster. As Swamplot noted in November 2008 (bold casing from original article): (more…)
My hotmail account (yes, I still have one, stop laughing at me!) was recently hacked and keeps spamming mofo’s at 3 in the morning. While researching answers I came across this:
It’s only a game-deciding goal in the World Cup. A reasonable venue for the worst call of all freakin’ time. There are about three American players being fouled, and yet the ref somehow managed to see something no one else in the entire stadiumworld could. Amazing.
A few months ago, I was scared out of my wits when a heavy hand thudded on the door of my apartment. I live in an apartment block with four top-to-bottom flats, accessible only via a secured entrance from the street, so my first thought was that it was a neighbor coming to complain about something, or possibly my landlord conducting a random spot-check. Either way, it is an unusual enough occurrence (actually, no one had ever knocked on my door before – we are not casual, drinks-party neighbors, but the type who actively avoid each other in the stairwell) that my heart immediately started jackhammering in my chest. The second rapid-fire thought, naturally, was that it was someone announcing their intention to rob and kill me.
My third thought would probably have been of the gas meter man, had it not been 8:00 at night and a gruff, muffled voice then announced, “Police.”
I can’t think of a single good reason that police would be calling at your home. They don’t send police to tell you you’ve won the lottery. They don’t sell cookies. They’re only there to question you, arrest you, or give you bad news.
Or, someone pretending to be police is there to rob and kill you, possibly after they robbed and killed whatever idiot neighbor buzzed them into the building. In any case, one opens the door with great reluctance, sometimes hiding a kitchen knife behind one’s back. This is embarrassing when they are, in fact, real police, and one makes them hold their badges to the peephole and stand five feet back on the landing before one will crack the door two inches to eyeball them, sweaty fingers clutching the most lethal-looking implement from the butcher’s block. (more…)
A week ago I had an appointment with the British Home Office in Croydon to upgrade my immigration status from a sponsored Work Permit to Tier 1 Visa as a Highly-Skilled Worker, for which I am newly qualified. My reasons for this are two-fold: for one, I am job-hunting, and this grants me the ability to work for any employer in any industry within the UK, rather than relying on new sponsorship within my current profession; secondly, although I still have over two years remaining on my Work Permit, I thought it best to get in there fast to take advantage of the recently relaxed requirements for Tier 1 qualification before the new Tory coalition government clamps down on immigration policy. It means that I can continue to live and work in the UK without dependence on a company or a partner, which is a pretty sweet deal, even if it does cost £1095 for the privilege.
Like anyone would, I jumped at the opportunity to combine my passion for navigating bureaucratic red tape with the thrilling roller-coaster ride that is the uncertainty of employment and immigration status. It’s like visiting the DMV, but with your livelihood on the line! Already a “highly-strung” personage, I’ve found the experience to be nerve-wracking, especially on top of the dozen job interviews I’ve had over the last couple of months. I feel like I’ve been living in an uneasy state of limbo and have been hopeful that at least settling this aspect of my existence here in London would bring some clarity.
Alas, it was not to be. Here’s what’s happened so far. (more…)
Hi! Remember me? I used to post things for you to read/ignore/steal/think about/waste conf call time on, but now all I do is dream about being able to do those things. I know I was all, “Damn The Man!” when I worked corporate and now I work for myself but still need The Man to pay me so I’m all, “Damn my lack of sick days and regulated salary!” First world problems, ftw. Anyway, I gotta get back to work because my hand made imported hipster panties made from the inner ear linings of albino unicorn foals won’t pay for themselves, so enjoy some history.
Although I am not normally in the habit of paraphrasing Rita Rudner, I recently did so in an office card for a colleague’s wedding, noting that I was delighted he’d found that special person he wants to annoy for the rest of his life. The present Boy Person and I are not nearly that far gone, but have taken great pleasure in irritating each other for the last couple of years; it’s all part of the loving foundation on which long-term relationships are based. Whether we’re goosing each other in the stairwell, making hideous faces behind each others’ backs, or imploring one another to, please, really, just shut up, we’re never short of love or totally obnoxious behavior.
I don’t know why we find such mutual amusement in annoying each other – I don’t mean to the point of actual anger, but certainly irritation of the junior high variety. My latest and greatest achievement is the bottle of nail biting solution I’ve brought home in an effort to curb his nasty habit. He’s agreed to this treatment after two years of my pleas for hygiene and observations that the stubs on his fingertips look like ten little bald men, and so every other night, I get to coat his nails in highly flammable polish that tastes like a pure Everclear hangover.
And, oh, it is delightful to witness him absentmindedly snag a cuticle between his teeth, and hack like he’s coughing up a hairball. The faces, the sputtering, the whingeing… My enjoyment of the spectacle even surpasses the nearly-maternal pride I feel when he displays his half millimeter of nail growth (“Look! White bits! There are white bits on the ends!”). Good job, baby.
You see, I also consider this just revenge, of a sort, due to an incident from early on in our relationship. Allow me to set the scene of the crime. (more…)
I am about to tell you a sweet story about my man. If you are young and idealistic, you won’t find it so sweet, you will likely think it’s depressing that my bar is so pathetically low. If you are an old bag like me who’s been cheated on a couple of times, most notably by a seriously adulterous husband who left her with faulty instincts when it comes to my first boyfriend since the divorce, you might find your cold shrivelled heart expand just a bit.
So throughout most of my relationship with Felix Unger, I have often been an anxious mess. I have always feared his emotional distance at times was because he might have someone else, even though, when I push it, it’s always the same issue — really into you, really want kids, know we’ll have to break up at some point, trying to protect myself from the inevitable pain and misery of that breakup, trying to keep things light and breezy.
But anyway, when we first started banging, Felix had a cute little painted tin box filled with condoms next to his bed. And then a month or two after we started banging, we both were griping about condoms and I said I was fine to do without them but you know, I need to know that we are either exclusive or if we bang other people, we use condoms so as not to infect one another. He gave me an odd look, but readily agreed.
