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 didn't live
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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