For those readers who do not live in the San Francisco Bay Area, our weather is best described as schizophrenic. (My mom the licensed clinical social worker once said I have the wrong disease, I should probably say Multiple Personality Disorder. But I mean the rarer kind of
schizophrenia sometimes known as "salad talk," where people form sentences that fit gramattically but make no sense.) Summer, for example, often ends in August, with a month long cold, foggy downpour of rains. It then rises from the dead in September for blistering hot days the sustain us until the very start of October.
Just last week, in winter, I was telling all my friends I was glad I wasn't in New York with my brother, because it's been snowing like hell out there. We were walking around in t-shirts during the afternoon. Seriously, it felt like May and I was thinking how much I love living in California.
Then came this week: "Downtown Oakland's 38 bested the 30-year-old mark of 43 degrees set in 1975."
"So when you wake up Sunday morning, after shivering through what promises to be a wet, cold, nasty Saturday afternoon, look to the hills. Because that white you might see glittering in the welcome sun will be snow, snow, snow."
Read all about it.
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