Dud Sea Scrawls The Writing, clearly, is not on the wall!

It probably won’t happen, but the weather people say there is going to be an ice storm tonight. Or sleet. Or something. Doesn’t matter. I’m sure Atlanta won’t be so lucky as to get a “snow day” two days before Winter vacation. For those of you who are unfamiliar, ice or sleet or whatever has effectively shut down the city of Atlanta and all its suburbs on many occasions. When it’s cold and wet and gray, the south can’t be bothered to try. We are ill-equipped. Ridiculous, I know. Still. It’s home. And I ain’t moving, either, if the meteorologists tell me to stay put.

I was thinking, on my way home from my sister’s (She was supposed to have cooked dinner. She fell asleep and burnt it. I ordered pizza.) that when there was another ice storm–an actual one, almost a year ago, I didn’t know all the things I know now. A year is an incredibly long time, upon reflection.

April and June were really good months. April more than June. But every week of June there were these things happening that I never would’ve imagined could happen. Enormous surprises, but then summer is engineered for that sort of thing. And then August through September were really interesting. October was rocky as hell. But, it’s over now. And these observations are all, did you expect anything else, quite self-centered. Nothing of Pakistan or tsunamis or hurricanes or Gaza or famine or oil or Bush’s brain. Nothing important at all, you understand. Total frivolity. Absolutely forgettable and wasteful words, these. Still. I go.

And I’d learned a few words and phrases in Malayalam–which did NOT come from “The God of Small Things,” thankyouverymuch! But I’ve forgotten them all. Language dies if it isn’t utilized.

At one point I was thinking what it might be like to live in Washington, D.C. Didn’t pan out. Then there was that one night I was a stalker. For like thirty minutes. Then I was over it. Didn’t pan out.

And I keep trying to prepare myself for the actuality of my father not living long enough to see the grandchildren I can make him. I know I can do it. But I want him there for it. I think he’d make an excellent “Paw Paw” or “Poppy” or even “Big Daddy.” Every single, infinitesimal thing I’ve done all year has been an effort, one way or another, to distract myself from dwelling on this.

None of them have panned out.