On Thursday we leave for Oregon. Because we are intelligent people, we opted to fly out of Oakland. Here is where I remind you that I live in Santa Barbara. Here is also where I inform you that Santa Barbara is about five hours from Oakland, provided the traffic is good. See? Intelligent people.
In our defense, we thought we’d combine Christmas and New Year’s into one extended trip. Being that many of our friends have moved to the San Francisco Bay Area, we thought there’d be a good chance of being able to crash somebody’s NYE party up there. We reasoned that we’d just fly back into Oakland after Christmas with the beau’s family, pick up our car, and be ready to celebrate without having to drive very far. Right? Sounds reasonable. Except we forgot all of our friends are now 30 years of age, too, and that we have collectively undergone a transformation in which the only thing we are motivated to do after sunset is park our asses on the couch and watch House Hunters. Oh well. Whomever we hang out with, we will all probably be crowded onto one couch and dozing by 10:30 p.m., and it will probably be the best New Year’s Eve in the history of forever.
But back to the topic at hand, which was: necromancy.
Sorry! Just making sure you’re still awake. Also! Weird.
Part of the annual countdown to the holidays always involves a real time weather report, courtesy of our fathers. This year we’re going to the beau’s family, so for the past three weeks the beau’s dad has been dropping strong hints about the SNOW, and just how incredibly much of it there is where they live in Oregon. Today he even emailed us a photograph of his backyard, as visual proof of the MUCHNESS of the SNOW. Me, I don’t believe it for a second.
Listen. I grew up pining for Christmas snow. Pining. My parents were both from Michigan, but my dad was in the Air Force. And while the Air Force took my dad to exotic places like Europe and the UK for training, the Air Force was also responsible for sending him to California, like 45 times over. I don’t know why. While most military folks are hopscotching between Japan and South Dakota and Kansas and Germany and Hawaii and Mississippi and Morocco, my dad’s employment trajectory was limited to the following: Texas, California, Germany, California, California, Iceland, Virginia. And my mom and I didn’t even go with him to Iceland (it was a yearlong remote tour, which: poor dad). For those of you keeping score at home, that means I spent most of my youth bouncing around the same state.
Some of you are rolling your eyes right now, because California? Why the fuck am I complaining about growing up in California? I’ll tell you why, my friends: there is NO SNOW FOR CHRISTMAS in California. Do you realize what a travesty this is? My 8-year-old self would have killed to have had my dad sent to South Dakota, because at least in South Dakota there is a strong possibility of frozen precipitation falling from the sky.
Right now in Santa Barbara it is raining. It’s been raining nonstop since Friday. This is the coastal California equivalent to a raging winter blizzard, and while I appreciate the kind gesture, it’s just not the same. Not the same as snow. Which brings us back to our original topic: necromancy.
[JESUS WOULD SHE SHUT UP ALREADY.]
Every single year that we travel for Christmas — to places where snow is a very common winter phenomenon, I might add — either my father or the beau’s father attempts to convince us for weeks in advance that we’re in for a wonderland paradise of soft, white crystal-blanketed snow. And every single fucking year, it stops snowing the day before we arrive, temperatures climb, and it rains while we’re there.
Rains.
I can get that in fucking California! Or the shower, for that matter. SEVERELY UNIMPRESSED.
What I’m trying to say is that this year, I’ve learned my lesson. This time, I’m ignoring my father-in-law’s fervent testimonials about how much bounteous snow awaits us. I am fully expecting it to be 52 degrees and raining in Bend, Oregon, this Christmas. The piles of pristine snow will turn to dirty wet slush. Such is my life, and my fate: I am so hot that wherever I go, I melt snow.
The last time we were in Bend, it was gloriously snowy the first day. The next day, it warmed up and melted. STORY OF MY LIFE.
Lyn, you are killing me with the laughters. Also: I grew up in Montana. The years that we celebrated Christmas, we did so because we were snowed in and my father was bored. I would happily donate my snow if you’d donate your heat! We could have a swap.
Also, I think you kept getting back to necromancy because that’s what SEX IN THE TUNDRA FEELS LIKE.
You can come visit me in Fargo in January. I promise there will be snow. No matter how hot you are I seriously doubt you can melt -20 degree temps.
Also, feel free to visit Ontario anytime between well, now and March. But you’d best be gone by April, because that’s when the rain sets in . . . but yes. We can build a snowperson in your honor. And then make my husband light a fire. (No, really, he enjoys it. I swear!)
OMG. The rain.
True story: A few years ago — you’ll remember them as the last time it rained nonstop between October and February — I had to travel to Seattle and Eastern Washington repeatedly for work. It rained constantly in Orange County all winter, but every time I went up to Seattle, it was clear and beautiful. The air smelled crisp and lush, and I seriously wanted to move there. You know, where it didn’t rain (?).
So then the following year rolled around, and I again had to travel repeatedly to Seattle and surrounding areas. The rain, though, it had finally returned. No snow, just gray, wet, yuck. It turns out the previous year was a drought, a fluke.
Hilarious. I do hear of the snow in Oregon right now, so perhaps this will be your year.