Southern California has ben beset by wild temperature swings in the last week. Last Monday I was in my poorly-insulated apartment, battling a nighttime low in the high 40’s while bundled under layers of blankets with Chaplin curled up next to me for warmth.
Seven days later, it’s 11am, and my little weather program is telling me that it’s currently 93 degrees in Santa Monica, a temperature I generally do not see until late August, if at all.
I at least have the option of wandering around the apartment in a tank top and shorts, jumping in the pool if necessary. Chaplin is a bit more miserable, and is in the process of going back and forth between a) sleeping in the coolest places he can find and b) attempting to shed his entire coat.
I’d take this opportunity to at least be able to kill the pilot light on my heater, except the low for sunday is forecast to be 53 degrees. Whee!