I’ve never
been much of a winter guy. And no, I don’t go around whining when the
temperature drops below my age. Okay, I do whine a bit more than necessary, but
dog-gone-it, the reason I moved south from Northern California was the awesome weather.
Oh, and the hope that I might run into some stars. Matter of fact, I thought I
saw Steven Tyler of Aerosmith at the beach the other day, but it turned out to
be just an old bag lady with whiskers. So taking into account I also don’t ski,
snowboard or partake in any other sport that involves sliding or tumbling down
a frozen mountain at 60 miles an hour, living in close proximity to where the
Donner Party developed a taste for Mutton Jeff doesn’t do much for me. On the
other hand, I don’t surf, body board, or in any way make myself chum for the sharks, but do visit the beach more than I ever went to the mountains.
Although we
are in a drought, the news people are crying wolf for rain this weekend. This
is disconcerting to us (and them) because we wear really cool shoes here, and if
they get wet we might get mad and never watch the news again. So even if the
chance of rain is as slight as running into Kanye West at a Mensa conference,
they warn us anyway. And besides, it gives them something to talk about besides
shootings, high-speed chases, sports, and cute puppies that need a new home.
Now, being as
anxiety ridden as I am, I always use plenty of waterproofing spray on my shoes so
if there’s ever rain, a water main break, or a Grande Latte spill at Starbucks my
shoes will still look fabulous, and that’s all that really matters here, right?
The one
upside to rain is the squirrels will stop glaring at me through the window
every time I chug a bottle of Sparkletts.
I realize El
Niño is just around the corner, but as I finish this, the sun is still shining
outside my patio door. I’ve heard it never rains in Southern California, or so
goes the old song. Of course, it’s also said that rock-n-roll never forgets,
but tell that to The Electric Prunes.
K.G.
