If it’s one thing beyond my faith and my love for my mama that I will openly proclaim my undying love for, it’s my ride-or-die-ness for California. And not only California–my adherence to Southern California, Compton-repping, and a proclivity for reformed gang members.
There is so much to love about California, namely year round warmness and an environment where snow boots and bomber jackets can stay tucked away only for a weekend at Big Bear, only to be quickly returned for a two hour descent back into beach-hood. I’m no surfer, but because of living only 20 minutes away from a beach 99% of my life, I would consider myself sand and pier fluent.
What I am not fluent in is being in the rain. I give all rain lovers profound eye rolls and my only fantasies about cold liquid falling relate to Slurpees and cool mists at outdoors restaurants that line the coast. Not rain. Not rain that is nonstop for more than ten minutes. Not rain that won’t go away for the next week.
This kind of torture only gives me pause and appreciation when considering the annual fires that plague us every October. I sing rains praises only for the brief moments I remember being stuck inside because ashes and embers fell on my head and I couldn’t get my weave dirty and coughing has and never will be cute. I thank God for rain only because the flood of Noah’s day washed away all haters and no one needs haters. Yet today, when I see parts of the inner city that I used to brag about never flooding, actually flooding and joining the ranks of flood and mudslide riddled affluent areas, I need to take a seat.
But I can find it within my soul to be okay with the rain. Afterall, I’m self-employed and location independent. I can literally stay in my bed and work from my laptop and phone and not see a drop of rain, much less, actually feel it melting me away a la Evilene. In fact, I actually cracked a smile when fantasizing of spending my entire day watching OWN, flipping through a good book, and sharing videos of people hitting the dolphin or screaming “What are thoooooose?!”
I actually planned my day to do just that. All of the work I needed to get done wasn’t work that needed to be done today. It was a bonus. So sleeping in nestled under two blankets, wearing stretchy, soft pajamas decorated with illustrations of sewing notions, whilst my head sunk into my overpriced feather-stuffed pillows seemed great. Imagine that. A day planned for being an unmotivated diva.
Instead California decided to remind me that not only does it rain and that El Nino was returning to wash away all hopes of a warm winter, but that it is, in fact, documented as earthquake country. At 6:42 a.m. when I was dreaming of dating Drake, J. Cole and Cam Newton simultaneously, the earth began doing the NaeNae under me, jolting me out the bed like Soulja Boy as he turns his swag on. Okay, okay, it wasn’t as bad as the earthquakes that have come before–Northridge, Bay Area, even the catastrophic one in Long Beach ages ago–but it was enough to make me rethink moving my emergency preparedness kit from my Amazon Wishlist and into my Prime two-day delivery cart.
Oh, but wait, there’s more. I turned on the news to see how big it was and to find out whether anybody got any damage. The reports were all good. I could get back in the bed, right?
Not so fast according to Mega Doppler alerts and sadistic reporters smiling as they mentioned all the flood warnings and road closures and one minor detail: There will be tornadoes in some areas.
What the what?
Hold on California! I thought bad traffic, fires and mansions falling down a hill in a Malibu mudslide were enough. Now you wanna act like tornadoes can come through like Tyler Perry on Oprah Winfrey’s network?
Naw homey. No, no, no, no, no.
We ain’t even got driving down the street right. We haven’t even yet mastered how to have clean air although we claim to be the greenest, cleanest eating, healthiest people. We haven’t even gotten bacon at In-N-Out burger after a public outcry on April Fool’s Day. But now you want to introduce entirely foreign weather patterns?
*grabs my coat and passport*
Look, I’m a Californian, born and bred and I don’t know anything about storm shelters or food storage and much less how to keep my afro from reverting in our rare autumn humidity, so this here tornado thing ain’t something I can get used to. I moved back from New York and New Jersey TWICE to avoid demise by inclimate weather, so being at home at high-rent-having, $800-biz-incorporation-fee-burdened California is NOT the business.
But hey, we still are home to Kendrick Lamar, Kobe and Steph so I guess I can live with this.
I mean, California, I’m complaining but I can’t legitimately complain. Life is good. I can deal so long as I don’t wash down this hill, get swallowed up by a chasm caused by an earthquake and then get sucked back out by a tornado. I wish I could choose which way to go in the case of my unfortunate demise, but all I can ask of you, dear Cali-caliente, is please, only offer me one option. I can’t handle all three.
Please and thank you,
Not Here For This