I think I just saw the Wicked Witch of the West zip past on her broomstick.
There's a wind advisory today, something that the weather service issues when sustained winds of 31-39 mph are forecast, with gusts in the 46-57 mph range. We just had one of those gusts.
Although stormy weather in November isn't unusual in and of itself, and in fact has been immortalized in a song by Gordon Lightfoot ("The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald," about the freighter that sank in a gale on Lake Superior in November 1975), the frequency and intensity of extreme weather events worldwide is increasing. We are moving towards a new normal.
It makes me glad for my low-profile house.
Moving on without segue, I've decided I'm not flying anymore (except maybe by broomstick). Not that I was ever a huge fan of air travel. But in a world that has gone insane over the fear of terrorists (a fear that has prompted responses far out of proportion to the actual threat and caused more pain and suffering than the terrorists themselves), subjecting myself to sexual molestation by security screeners so that I may have the privilege of being strapped into a crowded tin can to get from Point A to Point B (suffering delays, lost luggage, bad air, and annoying people) is one pleasure I can choose to forego.
I was outraged to see this story about TSA patting down a screaming toddler. If we've become that paranoid about our safety, then it's time to rethink a lot of things about the way we choose to live.
Off to yoga for a mood adjustment.
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