Snow Day, Near Philadelphia
Woke up at a decadent 8:17 this morning and found Facebook aflame with disgruntled posts. The 14"-24" that we'd all been prepped for hadn't materialized. Himself thinks there is a base of about 5" where we are; drifting makes precision difficult.
Anyway, back to the FB groans. "The weatherman who cried blizzard" was one theme; another was complete castigation of the storm itself: "She's a flirtatious tease!" "Liar!"
I don't know about the rest of the world, but Near Philadelphia, whenever a Major Weather Event is announced, locals rush to the nearest grocery store and purchase white bread, milk, and eggs. Many add toilet paper to the list of essentials. It's the kind of thing we know is strange and silly, do it anyway, and poke fun at ourselves.
Again: "Where's my blizzard?" Apparently the public schools had a two-hour delay, the second worst nightmare of school employees (the worst being early dismissal because of bad weather). And yet again: "Liar! Liar!" Which prompted me to opine that a forecast is not synonymous with a promise.
As we broke the eggs and judiciously added the milk, I reported all of this to my Beloved (who has a FB account but is not addicted) and we reminisced about a neighbor 46 years ago when we lived in enlisted housing on the Navy Base. When the family moved in, my husband introduced himself in Navy fashion: "I'm an Illustrator/Draftsman." "Oh," replied the new guy across the sidewalk, "I'm a weather guesser."
I got out the syrup (his preferred topping) and the powdered sugar (mine). Himself had been pondering the "promise" remark and observed, "There's a continuum: Guess -- Prediction -- Forecast -- Promise." I thought him to be brilliant and served up the bacon.
That picture above is from the internet. Our french toast is all eaten.