Summertime, Time to Kvetch Again.

Copy and Past this forecast over the calendar for the next three months and it will be accurate.

Hot... can't type... too hot...   Honestly, it is so damn hot here it feels like things should be melting outside. The backyard cats barely move, my dogs are rebelling against walking on the hot pavement, and I think I saw a squirrel with sweat stains under his arms this morning. When I make Mark drive me up to the store, the car a/c strains to simply keep the temp below ninety. Stepping out of the house is not much different than jumping into the swimming pool. Both are wet and warm. The air is so thick with humidity that it takes all my effort to push my way through it, the heat literally sucks all the energy out of me. Every crevice on my fat body is chafing, and tiny little bugs, invisible to the naked eye, have been using my ears as landing pads where they then stick to my clammy skin.

            I hate Florida summers. I hate them more than I hated Chicago winters, but only by a small margin. After all, putting ten layers of clothing on just to run the dogs outside isn't all that much fun either. What I truly find amusing are the Florida weathermen on television. First of all, they usually aren't men. They are almost always very young, good looking women who are always shot from a camera angle slightly above their heads so as to make their breasts look larger. This is to distract you from the fact that they just repeat the same weather report day after day. "Temperatures near ninety today, with a chance of rain. Tonight the temps will drop to seventy nine degrees. Oh, and there will be high humidity, very, very high humidity." I think that is why when we have a hurricane within three thousand miles of Fort Lauderdale, they go crazy. It breaks up the monotony. It also brings out the male weathermen, because we all know that the ladies can't handle the big blow.

Local forecaster, Julie Durda