Baby, it's cold (but not snowing) outside.

Okay.

Sometimes, a gal's just got to vent.

Here in the midwest, we experience a little something called "sub-zero temperatures." This shouldn't be news to... well, any of us. But, apparently, it is.

Walking into work today, I wore gloves and a winter coat. My collar was turned up, and my coat was pulled tightly around me. My gloves were warm. I was adequately covered, considering I parked approximately four inches from the door. But, when I entered my office, people acted like I was some sort of freaking war hero. "Wow!" they exclaimed. "No hat? No scarf? You could have frozen!" Bewildered, I continued on to my desk.

Frankly, it was pre-9 a.m., and I was only a 1/2 cup of coffee into my day. The streets could have been paved in gumdrops and poo, and I wouldn't have noticed. So, I'd hardly noticed that the temperature had, apparently, dropped approximately 367 degrees in the span of 12 hours.

What I did notice, though, was that people were driving like assholes. I mean, there was no snow. The sun wasn't glaring to any ridiculous extent, and there were no accidents hindering my travels. No; people were just being morons. Apparently, when it's cold, driving half the speed limit is not only recommended, but required. Perhaps by penalty of death.

The commute was ludicrous. An ancient man drifted across the lane lines in front of me; an exhausted mother stopped in front of me at random to release 3,579 children from her Stratus Coupe clown car; a school bus driver flipped me off as he made a left turn from the right lane.

As I came within a block of my office, I noticed a car to my right. The driver looked mildly frustrated, though fairly adjusted. She seemed like someone who certainly needed to get to work, but not like someone who found her exterior circumstances to be particularly unusual or prohibitive. She wasn't cutting people off, flipping me the bird, or weaving awkwardly through traffic like a drunken sorority girl at a frat party (who wouldn't have been drunk if someone hadn't told her that Vodka and Lime-aide was delicious and wouldn't really affect her that much, so she brought it to the party in a water bottle, and she had to hide it in her purse, because how was I supposed to know that outside alcohol wasn't allowed in the frat house? ...I'm sorry, what?).

This woman drove calmly. Almost serenely. As I slowed down to make the final, left turn into my office complex, the woman remained in the lane to my right. I stopped to wait for the left-turn arrow, and the woman finally passed me.

She had Texas plates.

Texas!

Seriously, I have family in Texas, and most of them have never even seen snow. I'm not sure they know what it is. They may, in fact, think that "snow" is some sort of government conspiracy. They eat killer Mexican food, do weekends in Galveston, and say "howdy." I freaking love Texans. But they don't know snow.

But this lady? She had her shit together. Somehow, she drove up from T-land and handled the snow like a champ.

So, midwesterners? ...What's your excuse?

Also, we'll need a urine sample from your first born.

So, we are going through the home-buying process.

No, for serious, we actually found a place we love - and it's not the short sale. It's pretty much perfect. It's 2-bedroom (yes, we'll have children someday; no, we're not having them yet; yes, two bedrooms is plenty), 2-1/2 bath, gorgeous kitchen with this wonderful open floorplan, very bright, very warm, very "closets, closets, everywhere!" and I want it to be ours.

So, before we looked, I'd gotten pre-approved, which sounds a lot more reassuring than it actually is. Now that our offer was accepted, we're going through the frustrating process of actually attempting to get our funding, and I'm realizing that being told you're "pre-approved" is pretty much like saying "you've got potential, maybe." Three weeks ago, this dude was all, "Ohhhh, good luck on your home search; there won't be a problem, ma'am" (don't EVEN get me started on the "ma'am" thing) and, now, it's all, "Well, we might let you have this loan, ma'am, but first, you'll have to provide urine samples for six generations of your family, your bank statements for the past 4,000 years, and a five paragraph essay on how to cure AIDS." Sure. No problem.

I just want closets. Is that so much to ask?

And, this process seems to be taking its toll. Yesterday, I was in a hurry to get to a committee meeting, but I was determined to display the control I still have over everything, so I thought I'd throw together a quick dinner for husband and me (Those of you who know me know that I actually DO cook, rather well, in fact, so the "quick" dinner concept was presenting a challenge). I decided I'd make grilled cheese, which I don't often do - but, halfway through, I apparently forgot that's what I'd decided to make, and I started adding deli turkey to the sandwiches (...? I don't know.), and mustard, and I let everything cook too long, and I wound up with, like, turkey charcoal with a faint, mustard-y aftertaste. Also, before starting the mac n' cheese, I didn't do an "ingredient check," because instant mac n' cheese has only... what, three ingredients? Well, I had two. I was missing the milk. So, I fed my poor husband a hot charcoal, meat & mustard sandwich with a side of macaroni noodles and cheese powder. He gave me a hug and said, "I'm not sure I've ever seen you so stressed." He's pretty wonderful. Because, seriously? If he made me that meal? I'd be all, "um, this is black-mustard toast and noodles. Try again."

The point here is that buying a home will drive you to sheer and utter madness. And, no matter who you talk to, they'll all be like, "It's sooooooo worth it!" when, really, what they should be saying is, "The process of buying a home will make you insane. Seriously, the tax breaks just aren't worth it. Do you like your mind? Would you like to keep it?" You get the point.

Someday, this blog isn't going to be about buying homes. It won't always be this one-trick pony. Soon, it will be about fun and cocktails and music and love and life and happiness.

But, right now, there is only townhouse. And burned sandwiches. And cheese powder.

Maybe renting isn't so bad after all...

House hunting.

So, tomorrow, we embark on the wondrous journey that is house hunting.

Again.

For those of you who read my old blog, God rest its soul, you might remember that about two years ago, we went chasing the elusive dream that is the "short sale." Never has there been a term so misleading. Our realtor told us, time and again, "Be wary of the short sale. No, seriously, you'd have to be a moron to put yourselves through this" (or something to that effect). But, it was no use. We were blinded. Blinded by the garish blue siding on the outdated tri-level on the Spanish-speaking street in the less-than-desirable subdivision that we longed to call "home." (We were young and impressionable. The basement had a chair rail. A chair rail!) We offered up all we had - more, in fact - and we waited for weeks. And weeks. And then the deal fell through.

With an apartment lease rapidly running out, we decided to rent for awhile. We wound up in our current home - a kind of cool, 1950's-esque ranch home, fitted with the homes original windows. At times, the draftiness gets so intense, we fly kites in the living room. The utilities are a bit pricey. Also? I've recently started to notice that the house may or may not be sagging in the middle. Like, we may slowly be sliding into a sink hole.

So, given my fear of drafts and sink holes, we decided to look into buying again. And, once again, we've sort of fallen in love with a place. It's a stunner. 3 bedrooms, 2-1/2 baths, finished basement, near a Menards (we'll get to my love of Menard's later. Seriously. Save big money at Menard's, people. You'll thank me And Menard himself.), and just pretty much ideal. So... the problem?

It's a short sale.

So, now, here I sit. Exploring home options like they're men. "This one is safe," I say about the small ranch on a quiet street. "This will provide me with security in my old age. It will always be there when I get home from work; it will never let me down."

"This one doesn't deserve me," I say, regarding the needs-improvement, sold-as-is property in the 'up-and-coming' neighborhood, "but I could be the best thing that ever happened to it."

"And you," I say, looking at the dreamy, short-sale town home, "you seem like a great idea right now. But I'm pretty sure I'll regret you in the morning."

For serious: short sales are the one-night-stands of real estate. Every time you're presented with the possibility of one, you're all, "No more - I have too much self respect for that and, really, I know better," but then another good-looking prospect comes along and you're all, "Oh, fuck it, it has an attached garage." Okay, I'm pretty sure I just obliterated my metaphor, there, and I'm not sure what an "attached garage" would refer to on a man. But you get my point.

So, talk to me. Tell me your tales of real estate horror. Of home-purchase-gone-awry. Of one night stands with attractive yet ultimately unavailable homes.

P.S. Have you seen this movie?

It's kind of what I'm talking about with the whole "falling into a sinkhole" thing. Rent this. It's ridiculous.

P.P.S. Seriously, I love Menard's.

What this is, really.

First off, I have to tell you: Don't take the title too seriously. I'm not incredibly self-depricating, I'm not THAT young, and I'm not actually a natural blonde. But the title brought you here, didn't it? Exactly.

And, let's face it. If I called it, "Young, Blonde, and Incredibly Intelligent," you'd probably think this was a blog about some freaky child genius or science or something.

What it is, is this: it's an honest look at a 20-something-year-old-woman, old enough to laugh with the best of 'em at her younger self, but not quite old enough to have it all figured out. It's for grandparents to gasp at, parents to smirk at, and college students to relate to. It's a little of this and a little of that - perspectives on careers, cooking, men, music, cocktails, fashion, bargain-hunting, and gym-loathing. In short, it's an outlet - for me and for you. I hope you laugh, I hope you enjoy and, mainly, I hope you learn from some of my ridiculous mistakes, so you don't always have to learn from your own.