Saskatch

Look who finally decided to show up

In classic California form, the crunchy-autumn-leaves type fall I waxed on (and ON) about the other day has come to an abrupt halt. After a foggy season that left summer wardrobes hanging in the closet, the thermometer hovered at 106 degrees yesterday in Santa Barbara (113 degrees in Los Angeles)—a slight inconvenience when you sleep in a loft and that pesky heat continues to rise. See, when you live in Santa Barbara and you like to call yourself an artist (I know, I deserve a pinch under the arm for that), more than one room in a home is a luxury, dammit.

So it begins...

It's unmistakable: Long summer days have morphed into evenings punctuated with a golden autumn light; European, map-toting tourists have been replaced with eager, backpack clad college students; and then there's that hint of wood smoke and the distinct smell of sharpened pencils in the air. It's FALL! I ask you: What's better than spiced cider on the stove and holiday excitement hanging in the atmosphere? I want to run out and buy gourds and Indian corn and fake cobwebs. Don't even get me started on planning for Halloween costumes (do you recall my panic last year?).

You mean my Norwegian CLOGS?

Behold my latest obsession: Clogs. Before you judge, consider this: When I was little, we teased my clog-wearing uncle relentlessly—Wearing your frankies, I see! This particular uncle happened to push six-foot-five, so "frankies" referred to Frankenstein, of course. (Kids are cruel... if not a little bit clever!) And then there's my first-ever date with sasbeau (worthy of a blog post all its own). My only hesitation? I wasn't quite sure how to process the fact that he sported clogs.