The way other people hate food poisoning or a bad case of the flu, I hate being cold.

I can’t function cold, at all, and by cold I mean any temperature that dips below fifty degrees. My teeth chatter, my lips turn blue and my toes go numb. All I want to do is wrap myself in a wool blanket, huddle in front of a roaring fire and eat large amounts of high-fat carbohydrates. My husband sleeps in shorts and a T-shirt under a cotton bedspread we brought home from Guatemala; beside him, I sleep in flannel pajamas and a fleece sweatshirt under a layer of comforters so thick he calls it the “iron lung.”

Cold is the reason I moved to California, so that I wouldn’t have to be. Like Scarlett O’Hara raising her fist to defy hunger at the end of the first reel of Gone With the Wind, I vowed, growing up in a one-hundred year old house in New Jersey that lacked insulation, that as soon as I had a choice, I would never be cold again.

In that house, the water in the toilet bowls froze at least once every winter. We shivered in the kitchen with the oven door open and all four burners on the stovetop aflame. At night, we draped our school uniforms over the steam heaters so that in the morning we could jump straight into them from the warmth of our beds; once I sat so close to the coils of an old-fashioned space heater I singed a mohair sweater. The year that Jimmy Carter urged all Americans to turn down their thermostats to sixty-five degrees, we were incredulous. Sixty-five degrees was balmy.

What was he talking about?

I lived blissfully in San Diego until I met and fell in love with my husband. I rented and he owned, in the frozen tundra of Marin. What choice did I have but to move?

He thinks I’m kidding when I tell him: The day I see a snowflake, I’m heading south.

By Jessica O’Dwyer

Labels: cold, Jessica O'Dwyer, Marin County, New Jersey, San Diego

Stumble This Post

Beginning in the nineteen hundreds, a seamless symbiosis of free love and free enterprise transformed Marin County, California. Once a bastion of free thinking, naked hot tubbing and spousal exchange, now noticeably homogeneous, virtually segregated (except for sexually) and passionately single minded (mostly for the left. . . so that’s something) community. In accordance with social Darwinism, specific species seek to inhabit ideal subzones according to their capacity to tolerate bullshit, bad service and Republicans. In Marin, the female of the species most clearly illustrates this anthropological shift.

THE EARTH MOTHER:
Breastus Sagamaximus
Open-toed Birkenstocks only. Lots of dangly earrings, usually of the local artisan variety. Vocal in opposition to vaccines, Ferberization and bathing. Children characterized by tie-dyed shirts and mullets. Advocates family bed until college. Habitat: stuccoed fifties rancher with rusted children’s paraphernalia littering common area. Automobile: Van.

THE NATIVE:
Marinphilus Arrogansus
Strong build from years of yoga (when yoga wasn’t cool) and skiing in Tahoe. Identifiable traits: marginally educated, disinterested in travel -- “why would I leave here?" -- no discernable ambition, low-tax base, great legs. Manages to work the phrase “fourth generation Marin” into every conversation. Habitat: Newly shingled Craftsman. Automobile: old Mercedes wagon with new Thule rack.

THE REBEL:
Twelvesteppus Naggus
Loaded teen punk/twenties reprobate turned middle-aged uber-volunteer/triathlete. Educated in East Coast boarding/reform schools; drug bust to rehab to Pilates. Former fondness for Jack Daniels and cocaine channeled into thirteen-mile runs and open water swims. Pretends to still enjoy AC/DC’s “Back in Black.” Habitat: renovated Victorian mansion. Automobile: Volvo wagon with car seats and Dead stickers.

THE RADICAL:
Throwbackus Insufferabili
Not to be confused with Earth Mother (although the physical manifestations are similar), the Marin radical openly criticizes (among other things) the lack of diversity in the public school system; fortunately, her sizeable trust will secure a spot for her child in the more eclectic mix afforded by the twenty-thousand a year private kindergarten. Habitat: Deconstructivist Post-Modern home designed by Frank Gehry (family friend). Automobile: Prius.

THE NOUVEAU:
Smugus Bourgeoisia
Hit the mother lode as second wife to local royalty. White blond hair and chemically erased expression. Given to elaborate displays of pretention, including but not limited to Parisian shopping sprees, interior design businesses and private jets. Known by everyone in the community -- save her own children. Habitat: Spanish Mediterranean estate complete with Tuscan tiled pool house for errant nooners. Automobile: Hummer.

THE OLD GUARD:
Bitterius Oldhaggius
Easily recognized by the twenty-two-inch hips, shellacked beige hair and enormous “everyday” diamonds. Face pulled as tight as the belts cinching her childlike waist. Once average height, now rendered minute by years of cigarettes, cocktails and life. Children are older than first husband’s current wife (see “The Nouveau”). Doyenne of local charitable organizations, known for frugality and flower arranging. Habitat: Chintz packed chateau complete with shell encrusted frames and mold encrusted bathrooms. Car: Black town car with driver.

THE INTERLOPER:
Deerus Headlightia
Often a late to the party transplant from either the Midwest or East Coast. Still perplexed and unsettled by the informality and entitlement of locals, she subsists on a steady diet of caffeine and antidepressants. Favors Levi’s, Merrells and Lexapro. At social gatherings, occasionally feels the urge to shout “The Emperor Has No Clothes,” but refrains for reasons even she can’t quite discern. A loner forced into the open by her children’s frenetic social lives, she feels the need to conform yet cannot find a comfortable mold. Every now and then, as a silent fuck you to the community, she doesn’t recycle. Habitat: Ridiculously overpriced Grey Cape with black shutters. Car: Passat wagon.

By Leissa Jackmauh

Labels: different kinds of moms, Leissa Jackmauh, Marin County

Stumble This Post