The local news is featuring warnings on a silent killer that claims more lives than murder — cold, fucking cold. Not just freezing cold, but the kind of cold you get around here. Apparently, folks are expiring all over San Francisco. For a city with no snow, no mountains, no glaciers, SF is plenty fucking cold, though. Just not in a macho kind oflumberjack cold way. More wilting pansy, really.

Truth is California is pretty wussy on weather. Probably more so up here in the north, where sure there are microclimates up the ass, like varying 30 degrees in as many miles, but still in all it’s what you would call mild by non-wusses everywhere. Some days I’m leaving the house thinking shit I might actually need a scarf or an extra layer. Oh no.

Imagine then the horror I’m feeling, the gut-knotting clench of anxiety, imaging snow. Imagining ice. Imagining below freezing temperatures. How do people live like that? How did I live like that essentially for four decades?

My coworkers have been taunting me of late about my immersion and assimilation into the lifestyle, because, face it, California ain’t just a state it’s a life style. Stupid me for leaving the organic black tea with cardamom pods and other chai spices purchased from the farmers’ market on my desk. Pretty much outed myself at that juncture.

And, then there’s the large scarves and shawls in which all Bay Area women seem to wrap themselves throughout the pussy non-winter winter. I’ve been scene rocking those glad rags myself.

If my DNA is mutating. If I am becoming one with the local climate. If I am now a full-time California resident. How in fucking holy snowball hell will I survive a week with a white Christmas? That’ll be me swaddled in polar fleece with nary a pimple peaking out from the layers.

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