That’s not a typo. ABC says it was 16 degrees in Woodland Hills after midnight. That’s cold for LA. Freezing. As I type this Yahoo says it’s 38 degrees in Sherman Oaks. Lately I’ve been dreaming of snow. Not ash from a burning car, but the real thing, falling from the sky.
In my dream my neighbors are standing in the street, catching it in their hands, smiling at each other. I keep checking the temperature, cheering it on lower. Chasing this impossible winter dream. I know I sound ridiculous, but this is exciting weather for LA.
An Alaskan cold front!
I keep looking out the window, but I don’t know what I’m expecting to see, an ice cube? A snowman?
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When I was younger I imagined the hills in my neighborhood covered with snow. There was a golf course just down the street that would have some sweet jumps should a blizzard ever strike LA. I pictured snowboarding all the way down to the market.
I’m still waiting.
One time it hailed and the hail gathered on the lawn. My roomates and I ran across the driveway and then hit the lawn sliding. Ten minutes later it stopped and the rain melted all the ice. We didn’t even have time to take pictures.
I think I’m going to put on a knit cap and go stand outside.
If I’m lucky I might even shiver. I might see my breath. I might utter, “damn, that’s cold.”