So I don't like cold. Never have. I was born on a hot summer day. Always loved the warm, summer breezes. The way a cold glass of lemonade (or whatever your pleasure) can quench your thirst from your time out in the sun..... laying on a hammock on a summer's day, book in hand, nothing on tap but enjoying the day's beautiful weather.......

And then...... all of a sudden... fucking old man winter decides you have had enough pleasure..... you have had enough of mother nature's warmth.... her love... and he decides to make his presence known... in the form of brisk breezes, sudden temperature drops, air so cold you can see your breath, gray skies, chattering teeth, and a cold you just feel in your bones.

This is how I am starting to feel, as early October apparently means ccccoooold now. What happened to the much-warned-about global warming? What happened to polar ice caps melting and all those poor, cute polar bears being stranded on a tiny ass piece of ice? Do I need to run out, buy an SUV and start massively polluting more carbon dioxide, just so I can have more of my summer?

So as I had to pull out my goose down winter jacket today, in addition to layers of clothing, I have to decided that old man winter can't have my summer yet. I am taking it back, while wearing shorts in 55 degree weather. And oh yeah, old man winter, you can't have that must-need heart medication I got for you just yet......You made a promise to give me my summer--or at least lukewarm temperatures--for at least another two weeks......you better deliver... or else.....

Dumbass scale: (for Old Man Winter not listening to me): 8.3

Sometimes a girl needs some space. I promise you have nothing to do with it. It's not you---it's me.

I am of course speaking about the relationship between me and my blog. My beautiful, loving, always-there-for-me blog. I wouldn't say we're a perfect match. I sometimes attend to her needs. I sometimes give her what she wants. And she is always available---maybe too available.

But really, I started this blog so I had a place to vent... to entertain...to express things in a venue that was totally my own. I still feel that way, but lately I have found I either don't have much to say, or would rather spend an evening unwinding in front of the TV, on the phone, or out with friends. My girlfriend likes to claim I have ADHD when it comes to little hobbies or projects. But I ask you, where is said proof of said ADHD? Uh huh.... you don't have any..... you can't handle the truth....

So if you ever wonder why it takes so long for new (and I don't mind saying truly insightful) blog posts to appear, well, life got in the way. Or, according to my girlfriend, ADHD.

Dumbass scale: 5.5

I have many gripes in this life.....Why does my cable TV bill cost so much? Why do women still earn 80 cents to the dollar to that of a man? Why does the summer season feel so short? All good questions. But none is more pressing, more annoying, than bathroom etiquette, or the lack thereof.

Here are some of the many things I have witnessed in the bathroom: women not washing their hands (yes, ugh, this still happens), women engaged in conversation with one another WHILE going the bathroom, women talking on cell phones while peeing (or worse) and women... well....just letting everything out.... not caring that there are one or more women also in the same bathroom, breathing the same air.

I honestly think I should write some sort of Emily Post's guide to bathroom etiquette and plaster my "Ten Commandments" of such all over work bathrooms everywhere. I can see it now: "Thou shalt not talk to others while in the stall." "Thou shalt 'hold it in' until no one else is in the bathroom with you." "Thou shalt always wash thy hands, or else thou shall receive the black light of shame in front of your co-workers."

So yes.....the next time you see someone in the bathroom committing one of these or other faux pas, you have my permission to start proselytizing them, indoctrinating them into the new and improved Ten Commandments. Then maybe we can move onto why I pay so much for the cable bill..........

Dumbass scale: 7.3

Sorry for the absence as of late. Last week I was stuck watching the Republican presidential debate (for work) and Obama's speech the following night (for fun)--talk about dumbassery run amok! And then.....as some of you know, my girlfriend and I made our way up to Canada for a few days.

Canada.... I affectionately call it "America's Hat." (Conversely, I have heard Canadians call us their bitch, because we're on bottom.. yeah, I'm not buying that). So I wanted to pass along the various things I learned for the few days we were in Toronto:

--Locals love wearing orange or red pants. Do you guys really think that looks hot? Unless you are in jail or starring in some live show of "Super Mario Bros," there's no real excuse for wearing such bright pants. And yes, I'm looking at you, Toronto women, strutting their stuff down Bloor Street!

--Locals love their small, puntable dogs. Sorry, but I don't even think small "dogs" should be considered dogs. They're not even the same breed as a Lab or Husky! If a dog can sit on your lap, yeah, that's like a cat with more fur! And locals love to walk their small dogs on the sidewalks right next to me...... you should go find a park or something.....

--Locals love their weird conversations. These are snippets of conversations I actually overheard: "He made me red pasta sauce. Fuck him!" and "He's too skinny for me." I also heard "George Clooney would date me," spoken by a gaggle of teenagers (in fairness, I am sure they had just seen George during the Toronto Film Festival).

--The Canadian accent, while somewhat sexy (at least to me), is not subtle. I can... totally.. tell now how many Canadian extras are in movies. Those long "ooohs" and about being pronounced "aboot." Is it still sexy? Yes. Is it still obvious? Yes.

--Your food is pretty damn awesome.... While there, I dined on crepes, in Greektown, at a bar, at a to-die-for Italian restaurant and at your ubiqitious donut shop. You may be "America's Hat," but that hat sure does know how to cook... :-) (Although your Canadian bacon leaves something to be desired).

--And, I learned that Canada has some pretty cool, hot peeps (hot for the chicks, not the dudes.. sorry).

Dumbass scale: 2.9 (that's for your love of bright-colored pants and small dogs)

So I am a klutz and a dumbass... I think you have figured that out by now. So it may come as no surprise that I had, well, shall we say an "incident" this weekend that pretty much confirms my place in the klutz and dumbass hall of fame.

Let me set the mood for you. It was Sunday morning. We have been having some pretty erratic weather as of late and I had a headache pretty much all weekend. So I was already cranky and not in the best place. I woke up early and made my usual bowl of oatmeal (an aside--I am a creature of habit and add pretty much the same things to my oatmeal every morning... I am not kidding you, in that those who know me best love to make fun of my "Rain Man"-esque recitation of the things I add to said oatmeal). But I pay them no mind.... it's my fucking oatmeal and I'll do with it what I like..:-)

But I digress..... I finished microwaving the oatmeal and when I took the bowl out, it was hot...unusually molten lava hot... so I hurriedly slammed the bowl down on the counter, except in my rush to do so I made the bowl bounce off the counter and onto the floor..... so the bowl breaks, sending shards of its material all over the floor.... but that ain't the worst part. All that steaming, near-scalding oatmeal also flies all over the floor, including one heap that lands on my right big toe. I am so focused on trying to clean up the broken bowl and the oatmeal off the floor that I almost don't notice that my right toe felt like I was just stung by a jellyfish. By the time I finish cleaning everything up and look at my toe, it has a red welt on it. And 10 minutes later, there is a small bubble forming on it. Yes, a fucking bubble on my right toe from fucking oatmeal (I am enjoying the f word today, clearly).

My girlfriend and I spend the day away from the house and after a band-aid is put on the toe, I don't really feel any pain. That evening she ends up popping said bubble (she likes that sort of thing.. don't ask) and now I have a new band-aid on the toe. But really, it's not a cut, not a blister, not anything even remotely normal. It's a former bubble from scalding oatmeal...You don't hear that every day!

Dumbass scale: 8.9

Sorry for the absence in blog land, but my girlfriend celebrated her birthday yesterday, so she won out over computer time. And unless the computer can love me as much, and provide all the fun girlfriend benefits, she'll win out every time. But alas, I am not here to write about her (not really a dumbass, although ask me on another day and you may get another answer). No, no, today is about women. Well, not all women, but specifically women who think it's sexy and/or cool to talk like they're seven. On purpose.

Now I am not talking about women who happen to have high-pitched voices. Hey, you can't help it if your voice is low, sexy, scratchy, "normal," or whatever. I am talking about the women... grown women.. who think men want to hear higher-pitched octaves because they will find it attractive. I was at the gym this afternoon, when a woman who normally talks in a regular voice approached her trainer and said with an obviously higher-pitched voice, "Am I going to be punished today?" (because she was late for her appointment). It was like fucking nails on a chalkboard. Was she flirting? Yes. But really, do women think it's hot to sound like a seven-year-old, still playing with dolls and occasionally wetting the bed?

I don't understand why women just can't be who they are--smart, beautiful, successful, funny and witty, who happen to, I don't know, sound like an adult? Are some women that insecure and if so, why do they think that reverting back to being a seven-year-old is the answer? And really, all you're going to attract is a bunch of Humbert Humberts, which I don't think the world needs more of.

So the next time you hear a woman use baby talk (when talking to another adult), or purposely tweak her voice up several octaves, maybe we owe it to her to tell her to grow the fuck up and let that 38-year-old speak for herself--in her own voice.

Dumbass scale for baby-talking women everywhere: 10

I have a younger sister. There's only a three-year age difference, so growing up we were always around one another. For good..... or bad. She was always in my stuff and I was always messing with hers. I am sure brothers are just as bad--although they are more physical and torturing one another usually involves being pinned down while someone hocks a whad a spit on you---or is that just my twisted imagination??

For me and my sister, we brought torturing to a whole new level. Think Jedi mind tricks. I stomped on the "grave" for her goldfish in our back yard, I hid her favorite cabbage patch doll, and I threw her freshly made "Hannukah bush" down the basement stairs because I told her "that's not what Jewish families have in their house"--amazing now that she's the more religious one of the two of us.

When I was 11, my best friend and I snuck into my sister's room one afternoon and stole all her underwear. We made some gross conconction of ice tea mix, chocolate sauce and oatmeal (you know, to bring it all together) and smeared it all over her underwear and bed.... and then put the underwear back in her drawers. And waited........for my mom to stumble there and think, "My word, my daughter can't stop shitting herself in her bed. She is still having accidents at eight. Something must be done."

Yeah.... you can see where this is going. My sister freaked out, told my mom and I ended up having to do several loads of laundry to clean up the mess... plus, I had to buy her new underwear for those pairs I ruined. Not the victory I was aiming for.

My sister had me beat. She was way more devious. Aiming to up the ante on the embarrassment factor. She and her friends... I kid you not.... wrote to Tampax as me....Said that "she" (meaning me) had some "issues" with......cleanliness during "her" (again "my") period and needed help and/or suggestions. (Seriously, why did she not end up working for the CIA in their torture division??). Well, the payoff for her came 4-6 weeks later, when I got a letter in the mail, along with some free Tampax shwag, giving me suggestions on how I could go about being more clean during my period. Seriously!! How fucked up and embarrassing for me to open up the letter and read it, thinking, "What are they talking about? Was there some sort of complaint?"

I can tell you my sister got walloped for that one. Ok, now that I tell the story, it's pretty funny. But back then, at 14 or however old I was, well, that shit can scar a kid. So I salute you, little sister, for being the more quiet of the two of us, but also, the more devious, the more evil, the more of the troublemaker---and for getting away with it most of the time.

Dumbass scale: My sister: 9.8 Me: 5.2

So as I sit here, 48 hours away from Hurricane Irene hitting my region, the hype machine begins. The news stations all have "breaking news" plastered in big letters across the bottom of the screen to report that yes, the hurricane is soon going to make landfall, walloping much of the East Coast. It's going to pound the beaches and basically ruin our weekends. And yes, this is the same area that got hit with that 5.9 earthquake a few days ago. (We are all waiting next for locusts or slaying of the first born....).

This isn't a blog post about the hurricane itself... for that, well, you need to go to much wiser, more accurate news sites. But I can tell you that tomorrow evening, I will be among the crazies at the grocery store and Target, stocking up on supplies to "get us through" the storm (never mind that we live in a booming suburban area in which I have my pick of several grocery stores, a liquor store and three gas stations within a block radius). This area is known for totally going all "Lord of the Flies" (in other words, primal) during snow storms, so I can only imagine the hell I will be wading into tomorrow night. One of our last big snowstorms, I actually glared at other shoppers who dared to even be near my shopping cart, for fear that they would remove food for themselves... yes... seriously.. I became one of those people!  

So tomorrow night, if you see a news report on the hurricane, with a live shot from the grocery store, and a crazed, wild-eyed woman kindly described as "local woman who refused to give her name" is shown, being carted off to jail because she elbowed granny out of that last can of Bird's Eye corn, well....... send money. I may need help with bail.

Dumbass scale: 8.9 (this is my assessment of my anticipated level of dumbassery tomorrow night)

I recently finally finished slogging my way through that 800-plus-page tome "The Team of Rivals," all about Lincoln's cabinet. (Think of this as a "previously on dumbassgirl's blog"). Therefore, the rise and shocking fall of Lincoln is fresh in my mind.

That's the backdrop for why my girlfriend and I rented "The Conspirator." Let me save you time and money.... do....not... rent. The acting is surprisingly bad (and overly dramatic--I'm looking at you, Kevin Kline), the "historical accuracy" that the movie is so hellbent on following wavers and the accents are a bit odd--why does everyone sound like a southerner? Oh wait, I know..it's because three-fourths of the cast is from the United Kingdom and they need another heavy accent to hide their heavy British/Scottish/Irish speech patterns.

In case you're not familar with the movie's "plot," it focuses on Mary Surratt, who owned a boarding house where John Wilkes Booth and other conspirators met and planned the assasinations of Lincoln, Vice President Andrew Johnson and Secretary of State William Seward. Much of the planning took place in flashback, and the assasinations are where the problems arose for me. Maybe it was because I just finished the "Team of Rivals" book, but there were so many things left unaddressed in this movie... the fact that Johnson and Seward survived....or why Seward was wearing a neck brace (which ultimately saved his life by preventing the knife from cutting an integral artery) when the killer stormed in his room to kill him--he had fallen off a horse several weeks prior.

I realize these facts are not important to the movie, which is apparently solely focused on the first woman to be hanged by the U.S. federal government (sorry, did I spoil the ending for you?), but if you are going to tout yourself as being historically accurate, you might want to start by pronouncing the main character's name correctly--it is pronounced SUR-RAT, not SUR-RAUT.

It is a two-hour movie.... we got through one hour before I had had enough. If I want bad acting, bad accents and teetering historical accuracy, I'll watch any other war-related film that Hollywood churns out. I expected more from director Robert Redford. Perhaps The Sundance Kid should ride off into that sunset (or be done in a hail of bullets) and enjoy retirement.

And this dumbass will go back to watching old TV shows axed before their time.

Dumbass scale: 6.3

So every morning, I arrive at the office around the same time. I obviously am not alone, as lots of other people arrive around the same time. I am by no means a morning person. It takes me a while to wake up. And so that is what makes every morning heading into office even worse.

From the moment I park and turn off the engine, it is like a freaking race. Look to my left and right. How many others have just pulled in? How many are already getting out of their cars? How many are relaxing, still sitting in the car listening to the radio? If I get out now, will I have a clear shot? (clearly I have given this much thought... and no, before you think it, I am not anti-social--although it does sound like it a bit, doesn't it?)

Now mind you, nine times out of ten, these other people that arrive around the same time do not work for my company--they just work in the same building. But I will give you a description of a typical morning and you tell me what you think: I get out of my car and usually there are at least two others near me, walking toward the same tiny set of stairs and out the garage door. Then once outside, there is another door that people file out of, which goes to another area of the garage. There is a minute walk between that part of the outside and the main building entrance, but every single freaking morning, there are people in front and behind me. Every... single.... morning. People pacing me, people right behind me, people cutting me off. Are these people that pressed to get into work?

I am not sure how to deal with someone being rightbehindme at such an early hour and so every single morning, I walk into work huffy and slightly pissed. Not a good way to start the morning.

But here is how I want to start my mornings from now on: The next time (ie, tomorrow) someone is rightbehindme, breathing down my neck trying to get into work, I think I will just stop. In my tracks. Just stop. And when the douchebag bumps into me (because the guy is thatclose), I'll go all medieval on his ass, like only a white, suburban, middle class, Jewish chick can!

Or..... I will rant about it on my blog and only give the douchebag a hardcore stare down.......both equally effective. :-)

Dumbass scale: 5.2