The Fall of Southern California

“My eyes are puffy. Are my eyes puffy?”

The teenager is staggering out of her room. It is 6:30 in the morning. At the sound of her voice, the entire house awakens, griping.

Hark! It’s the 3-year-old: “Mama, I’m puffy, I’m puffier than she is, Mama, Mama! I’m the puffiest one!”

Oh, man, where’s the coffee? Now the 6-year-old’s coughing. My hair feels flat. Is my hair flat? And the palm trees are blowing. And where is the Kleenex? This air is gritty. Does this air feel gritty? And. . . .

Ah, yes. The Southern California autumn is back.

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Forgive me for intruding with this whine about the weather, but without a nice, cleansing gripefest, it just doesn’t feel like fall. The usual climatic phenomena--the Santa Anas, the too-bright mornings--those alone won’t do it. In Southern California, there must also be crowd participation. Whine with me now, people: WEAHHHHHHHHH!!!

Actually, weather here has a huge impact on the psyche. It’s kind of amazing, considering that, in the eyes of the rest of the nation, we hardly have any weather at all. Uh, let’s see: Sunny, sunny, really sunny, hazy, sunny yet windy, December, back to the sun. . . . Pretty bland, actually, and yet every nuance gets noticed. The economy can be flailing, the sex police can be hijacking the White House, and what’s Topic A in the women’s room?

Climatic conditions. (“My hair is flat. Is my hair flat?”)

Down at the elementary school, entire conversations revolve around whether it’s time for sweaters. Adults in the office lunchroom bond over their allergies like retirees swapping hemorrhoid stories in an old folks’ home.

The particulates in the valleys, the chill at the ocean, the speculation on whether El Nino is or is not El Gone-O--the weather here is more than a condition, dude: It’s a genre.

Some people believe it’s a consequence of geography, this fixation. In a place of this size, weather is one of the few things we can all be in together. A personal theory is that the less the weather changes, in general, the more obsessive people get about the nuances of rain and shine.

I remember working for a newspaper in Arizona where, every day, the forecast was: hot and sunny. And every day, some poor grunt had to compose a weather poem. It was just a couple of dopey lines--stuff like: If you spend/The day outside/Have your sunscreen/By your side. Signed, I.M. Sweatin’. My eyes roll just remembering.

Still, if the newspaper left it out, the subscribers complained as if the 1st Amendment itself had been undone. Someone had to acknowledge the weather, even if it meant writing 365 stupid poems a year about the sun.

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This is why I share these intimate autumn tableaux with you, dear reader. It’s a dirty job, greeting the season, but it must be done. For now comes the 6-year-old, sniffling. And now everyone wants to stay home from school. Perhaps you’d be fine having this many cranky people rattling around your house for an entire day full of Santa Anas; if so, you may want to reread your Raymond Chandler.

There are places where autumn means fall foliage and frost on the pumpkin. Not here. Here, autumn’s the season of coughs and sniffles and midnight ear infections and “Big Gulp”-sized bottles of bubble gum-flavored medicine. Not to mention women in nightgowns with flat hair and no coffee. And puffy-eyed teenagers carping from room to room.

“Where’s the Chapstick? Who stole my Chapstick?”

“Mama, my nose is running.”

“My ear is starting to hurt.”

“Can you call the doctor? Can we take my temperature? Can you take the day off from work?”

Ah, yes. The Southern California autumn. Listen to the whining. Feel the wind. Funny how, even with uneventful weather, you know when the season of annoyance has begun.

Funny how much fun it is, this time for grousing, for getting down with the gritty wind and the whiny moods. Ditch your job/Punch the wall/Just another/SoCal fall. Signed, Angie Lino.

I love hating this season. Don’t you?

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Shawn Hubler’s column appears Mondays and Thursdays. Her e-mail address is [email protected]