Here's something you might not know about California: it gets cold. Really. I swear. Sure, we all wish it was topless Hasselhoff weather three hundred and sixty five days a year because, well: hairy chests a-glistening. But that's just a pipe dream. The deserts routinely dip into the 40s at night and we've got skier on them thar hills.
And here's something you might not know about Californians: we cannot handle the cold. In fact, we can't handle anything beyond a light breeze. When it starts drizzling, we immediately slam on the brakes, throw our hands in the air, and shriek at whatever New Age God we're currently worshipping. When the wind starts blowing, we complain about it's mussing the new hair-do of the tiny dog we all keep in our purses. We don't even own pants.
So you'll agree that the news of possible snowfall in San Francisco is a reason for all out pandemonium. We've got lows today of 26 and lows this weekend are threatening to hover around ice cube temperatures (highs will be more around Ice-T temperatures.*) In fact, it snowed last March while we were in Texas, fainting from heat-stroke and too much pulled pork (if there is such a thing as too much pulled pork, that is). So, in all honesty, I'm hoping for snow. Praying for it, even. I want to make snow angels and snow men and snow avatars and all matter of snow beings. I want to wear mittens with fire trucks on them. I want throw a snowball at someone who won't find it cute or funny. I want to go sledding. I want a toboggan. I want to write my name in freshly fallen snow with my pee. I want to have a sword fight with some icicles and accidentally gouge someone's eye out. I want...
Wait. What's that? We're expecting what? An Inch? An Inch at the absolute most? Well...drat. If you need me, I'll be making dirt angels in that vacant lot over there.
* I hereby apologize to all our readers for that joke. The thespian Ice-T is also unamused. Which is okay. I saw "Leprechaun in the Hood" and "Tank Girl" and I too was unamused. Just repaying the favor, Mr. T.