Snowpocalype: A Survival Guide

Greetings from the frigid Northeast!

Unless you've been living under a rock (or live abroad, in the case of the onslaught of Russian readers/spambots that my stats inform me are viewing this blog), you probably know that most of the continental United States has been trapped in the clutches of the ominously-named "Polar Vortex" for the past three weeks or so. For most, this has meant near-record lows for temperature as well as the constant threat of "winter weather events."

Or, as we here in New England like to call it, "winter."*

I have a huge amount of family and friends spread across this great nation of ours, including several who either currently reside in, or are originally from, The South. One of my best friends packed up her shit and moved to Tampa practically before her high school graduation cap hit the ground, and two-thirds of my immediate family are residents of the Lone Star State (one brother is in San Antonio with his family; the rest are in Waco while my sister attends Baylor). There are several more across the country, but they all share a Yankee heritage and have flown the coop simply to avoid this phenomenon called "snow."

A lot of people are giving our Southern friends a hard time because an entire major metropolitan city was brought to a standstill by approximately two inches of snow. This isn't cool, guys. Some of the stuff being said and, more obnoxiously, written, is downright mean. And while I'm as guilty as anyone else of giving the side-eye to the entire situation, it was based not on the actions of (most) individuals, but on the inability for the city and state infrastructure to weather such an event (see what I did there?). To my Yankee brethren, remember how the entire Northeast shut down for Nemo last February? Sure, that was two-three feet of white stuff, but impact-wise, there isn't much difference between two feet in Boston and two inches in Atlanta. We operate annually with snow removal budgets and know from experience to never trust a snow/rain line on the doppler -- but would we know that if we didn't live with it all the time? Of course not, just the same way that I don't know how to deal with 110 degrees and 100% humidity or an actual intense hurricane (which, coincidentally, took down what is arguably the most important city IN THE WORLD last year, as well as an entire coastline that still isn't back to normal). Cool it with the personal attacks already.

That being said, I feel that, as someone with almost 30 years of experience with this situation (and a lover of bad weather), I am qualified to give advice regarding how to survive in a Snowpocalypse, regardless of whether said incident brings 2 inches or 20. Should you find yourself in an impending "snow situation," here are some tips that I've found work for me and most people I know who deal with it on a regular basis. 

How to Survive a Snowpocalypse

A few basic rules:
Rule 1: If there is even a single flake falling somewhere in a 100-mile radius, you could get snow and should act accordingly.
Rule 2: Never, ever, EVER trust a meteorologist attempting to predict a snowstorm, especially if he or she uses the phrase, "rain/snow line." This is the weather equivalent of throwing one's hands up in the air and declaring, "HELL IF I KNOW! I just get paid to stand here and talk about the unpredictability of Mother Nature." While you can't control how your city/state/municipality prepares for a snowpocalypse, if there is even the remotest possibility of snow in the forecast, the suggestions below will help if you get slammed.

Preparation:
First off, you need to make sure you're properly prepared for a snow storm. This includes, but is not limited to, stocking up on a few essential items:

Seriously, though -- get yourself a bag of rock salt; a shovel; a good pair of mittens (those are the kind WITHOUT separate fingers -- they look stupid as hell but trust me, they're warmer than gloves); some long underwear (I actually think fleece-lined running tights work best); a pair of boots (order online if you have to. LL Bean: not just for monogrammed dog beds anymore!), and one of these handy little do-dads.

Source

Another pro tip? Prior to the predicted storm, take five seconds and pull your windshield wipers up as though you were going to clean the glass; this way, when the snow is over, you can just flip them back down, turn them on and watch as your windshield magically appears with very little effort on your part).

Like so.

Most importantly, IF YOU HAVE OIL HEAT, make sure that you have enough oil for the next few days. Now is also a good time to locate your flashlights, candles, blankets, etc., in the event you lose power. I also like to round up my board games and books, because nothing screams "BORING" like sitting in the dark for several hours with nothing to do but stare at each other.

Lastly, you want to be sure you're properly fortified with rations, because the absolute LAST THING IN THE WORLD you want to be doing during a snowstorm is sleeping on the floor of your local supermarket with a bunch of random strangers. For some reason that I assume dates back to World War II, there is this pervasive rumor that once a single snowflake falls, the human body magically switches over and is only able to convert bread, milk and water into fuel. Perhaps I've been doing it wrong, but I usually stock up on the important, shelf-stable food groups (wine, cans of soup, wine, EZ Cheez, crackers, beans, beer, wine) at the beginning of the winter, and I've managed to survive on this planet for almost 30 years, so that's something.

Don't be this person.

But what if I've ignored this advice and listened to the weather man, only to find out the storm *is* going to hit so I immediately went to the store three hours before the storm to get my bread and milk and now, after being trapped in Aisle 4 for five hours, my options are to brave the roads or sleep next to the feminine hygiene products?

::Sigh:: You ignored the first rule. Luckily for you, if Northerners didn't learn to drive in the snow, our entire economy would shut down for six months out of the year. So here are some tips:

- Understand the concept of black ice. First up, a clarification: black ice isn't actually black; it's just called that because it's so thin that it isn't visible over pavement.More importantly, it is slippery as hell. Before you even set foot out the door, heed this advice when it comes to ice: just because you can't see it doesn't mean it isn't there. What it *does* mean is that if you aren't extremely careful, you're going to find yourself either in a ditch or (literally) on your ass.

- DRIVE. SLOWLY. I can't overemphasize this enough -- you might be cruising along, thinking "wow these roads look so clean I don't understand what all of the fuss was abo-- SCREEECH!!!!" Remember that black ice we just talked about? Now you can admire it up close, because you're going to be waiting awhile for that tow truck.

- Turn INTO the skid. I speak from thirteen years of experience when I say that there are few things in the world more nerve-wracking than losing your traction on a sheet of ice or packed snow and feeling the back end of your car slide out from underneath you. Generally speaking, you want to steer into the skid, which defies common sense but works. Here is a video demonstration:



Congratulations!
You are now prepared for a snow storm. Now grab your stash of Blizzard Wine and a loved one, heat yourself up a can of soup and settle in for a marathon-viewing of whatever Netflix show suits your fancy

I'd go with the back shelf, rather than the front.

Go get 'em, Tiger.

*cue the Russian readers laughing. I don't blame them.

Sheep and Kings

I've always loved cheese. Unfortunately, I'm allergic to most varieties of it, particularly those that are soft (I have a severe mold allergy in addition to a host of other allergic ailments). For that reason, for most of my life, I tended to stick to the harder, more mild cheeses, such as cheddar and jack. Then last year, while complaining about how I'm not supposed to eat feta but it's in basically every delicious-looking salad I've seen, my allergy nurse asked why I didn't just use goat cheese as a substitute. I'd always assumed I couldn't eat it, but apparently a lot of people who can't eat soft cheese can get away with mild goat cheese. After years of passing it by without a second thought, I realized exactly what I had been missing.

Goat cheese, to me, is like that boy you knew your entire life and always thought of as the kinda-cute-husky-kid in elementary school, who then blew your freakin’ mind by showing up on the first day of junior high looking like Adonis.

Which is, of course, how you proceeded to refer to him as you professed the pains of your unrequired love to all of your twittering girlfriends. You never know when Gretchen Wieners and that hair are lurking around the corner, just waiting to spread the news of your totally-out-of-league crush.

Did I mention I was really, really awkward in junior high school? Another story for another day (or forty). Lucky for me, most of my friends had the same taste in guys that I did. At fourteen, we were prototypical pubescent balls of hormones-run-amok. Although we all had secret little code names for our crushes, as I think most teenage girls do, my friend TBB#1 and I took the process of creating them to a completely other (borderline disturbing) level.

Now, we’re not talking about some cutesy little “omg! Teehee! I heart APM!” and “Caitlin + Crush = Lurve” doodled all over our notebooks. We are talking about a complicated system involving numerous names for the same person, deliberate red herrings created to throw inquiring minds off the scent, entire notebooks devoted to keeping track of the objects of our affection (complete with AOL profile details and photos of them taken over each other’s awkwardly-posed shoulders) and, of course, a ridiculously intricate method for developing descriptive, yet non-specific, codenames for our crushes.

There was The Joker, termed as such for his inordinately massive smile. There were The Butlers, whose parents had taken it upon themselves to spell “J” names with "G”s, forever relegating them, in our Fresh Prince-influenced minds, to the status of house servants. The Mustang, The Rainbow, Dodger, Therapist, FM Radio – all created to keep the identities of our crushes clandestine and, in part, to drive our male friends wild as they tried to figure out exactly to whom we were referring at any given time.

Of these dozens of carefully coined nom de plumes, the one of which we were most proud was The Sheep. Seems innocuous enough, right? What you don’t know is that to reach this pinnacle of our awkwardness, we first had to create three other coded names, put them together in a twisted equation that would have made even the algebra teacher that flunked me proud, then take the resulting letters (B.A.), pronounce them phonetically and, finally, use that sound to create our masterpiece. He had numerous other aliases, including, but not limited to, The Artist, The Royal Sheep and His Highness.

Despite all of the desperate measures we took to hide it, The Sheep et al. had to have been aware of our madness. My propensity for turning bright red in the presence of boys notwithstanding, the fact that TBB#1 and I appeared in their lives at "random" intervals almost every day was probably a bit alarming. So for that, I want to issue a public apology and thanks. Men of my high school from years 1999-2002, I am sorry that I was so awkward. Thank you for putting up with the shenanigans of two silly teenage girls and, more importantly, thanks for not calling us stalkers to our faces (or the police). Facebook tells me that you are all leading healthy, normal lives with beautiful people by your sides. I promise not to take unknowing photos of you for my scrapbook at the reunion next year.

And to my dear high school friend BowlCut, I'm really sorry that TBB#1 and I mistakenly took your lost fleece because we thought it belonged to The Sheep. May it provide you some comfort to know that though you probably froze that spring, it had a place of prominence in the center of our shrine.

For my parting words today: TBB#1, if you are reading this, I believe we both missed out on a very lucrative career in the CIA.

(Disclaimer: Though based on recollections of my very awkward high school years, this piece was written in jest. I am not, nor have I ever been, anything close to a stalker, and I don't find the subject of actual stalkers funny in any way. It goes without saying that if you or someone you know feels threatened, you should alert the authorities.)

Friday Confessional: The Inauguration of FUF

While I'm usually not the type of person you'd see on the news anyway, my life has been particularly boring these past two weeks. My Memorial Day Weekend was fun, but nothing special (unless you count the 2:30 AM dance party on the Cape with Andrew and my "in-laws" and a run-in with a fundamentalist christian carnival, of course). As for this past week, I reminisced about my time as a kamikaze ninja and reflected on a big mental breakthrough last weekend. (I'm not a sponsored blogger so don't really care if you care to read those or not).

Anyway. Today's confession is inspired by Melissa over at Melissa Nibbles -- her "It's OK!" feature on Fridays never fails to make me laugh, and last week, as I was trying to come up with a better confession than simply, "I Have Bieber Fever" (which isn't really a confession because anyone within 10 yards of me at the gym can hear me muttering "Baby, baby, baby, ohhhhhh..." to myself as I pound out the treadmill), one of her rants really struck home with me, and is the inspiration for today's Confession. So, without further ado:

Forget Meatless Monday; Farewell, Wheatless Wednesday. In my well-earned position as Best Health Blogger EVER, I do hereby confess that I am now instituting the best blogger-dictated-arbitrary-alliterative-food-day-ever: 

F**ked Up Fridays!

That's right! Think about it: in honor of your totally self-imposed sacrifices this week, don't you deserve a day to just kick back, relax, and get Effed Up?!


Now, I know what you're thinking: won't this make me fat?! 

But have no fear! FUF is ALL ABOUT the fitness. First off, as anyone who has ever been to a frat party knows, hauling around a 30 is HARD WORK. Carry it over your head and do the ol' drop-n-raise to get killer shoulders and triceps. Refine those fine motor skills with an intense game of beirut ("beer pong" to you weirdos who didn't grow up in NH and don't know that beer pong is an entirely different game involving paddles). Get your cardio in with a good ol' fashioned game of dizzy bat or slap the bag, and don't forget to WORK THOSE ABS as you're bent over a bush completing the boot n' rally!

Remember, kids: you can totally multitask and complete your workout while getting your flirt on with the opposite sex.  Nothing says, "holla at me" like a good 16oz curl, amIright?!


And just think about the impact on the environment and local business! By buying local beer, wine and/or moonshine, you're supporting all of your neighbors! Drink your sangria out of an overpriced carafe with abandonment sans guilt, because you're supporting the dying art of glassblowing! And don't forget to recycle those bottles and cans, ladies and gents --  that .05 really adds up! It's like Thrifty Thursday a whole day later!

There's no way that you can not participate following those compelling arguments. Now go forth, Ms./Mr. Health-and-lifestyle-blog-reader-girl/guy, and crack open an ice cold adult beverage of choice. 

Have a great weekend and GFU! 

*Please realize that this is satire and please drink responsibly.

Friday Confessional: Ode to Oats

Ok, let's cut to the chase. It's Friday. On Fridays, we wear pink confess our deepest, darkest, most embarrassing thoughts, obsessions and musings. 

So, today, I do hereby solemnly make this bold confession:

I'm declaring myself the best health blogger in the world.

Sure, I'm technically not a "health blogger" by definition, since I don't really have any credentials to speak of, I managed to gain back all 50 pounds I lost in high school in queso alone, I can frequently be found cheating on Mark West (only $8.49/bottle at Gary's in WRox, Boston peeps) with Ben and Jerry (mint chocolate cookie, please&ty), and I have no balance in my life to speak of, but none of that matters anymore.

I have conquered the healthy living blog world.

How, you might ask?

Isn't the answer obvious?!

Oats! 

I mean, how many times per day do you read a post that starts, "I knew my 10-mile fun run this morning would be a breeze, and I really motored through it with sub-8 minute miles, because I knew that afterward I could come home and eat the WORLD'S BEST BOWL OF OATS!" Seriously, in this community, oats are like gold.

GOLD, I TELL YOU!!!

Forget hot pink jellies, your dad's flannel, Pogs, JNCOs, Abercrombie and Uggs. A whole new standard of cool has been set; whoever can come up with the most innovative use for those wrinkly, dusty pellets of grain (rolled or steel-cut only; never instant, lest we kill ourselves with something from a ::gasp:: packet!) garners numerous page hits, umpteen comments and praise.

"OMG!" people cry by the hundreds, "I NEVER THOUGHT to add some oats to my SMOOTHIE!"

 "Oh yeah? Well I added oats to my OVEN-BAKED, ORGANIC, FREE-RANGE CHICKEN, bitch!"

I was left wondering what I could possibly make that could gain me access to this exclusive and elite clique. I mean, how to you top oven-baked, organic, free-range oaty chicken?!

And then it came to me:

CAITIE OATS

Seriously guys, I mean, I know I say this a lot, but for real this time: This is the BEST. BOWL. TUB. OF. OATS. EVER. And the health benefits --- OH, THE HEALTH BENEFITS! You just won't believe them. Fo' realzies.

FOR OATS:
1 medium canister of rolled oats
1 bathtub
1 body, wiggly bits examined and poked in the mirror
lukewarm water, to cover

FOR TOPPING:
1 jar colloidal oat relief cream

1. Take oats and dump into food processor.
2. Process until oats become EXTREMELY fine; you want them to basically become dust.
3. Fill bathtub with tepid water -- DO NOT heat to hot.
4. While water is running, dump 1 cup of ground outs under faucet. Stir to ensure no lumpy bits settle to the bottom.
5. Slowly submerge body into water, covering all available surface areas.
6. Consider topping body with cacao nibs, chocolate chips, nut butter, coconut, or organic toppings of choice.
6. Let body marinate until extremities begin to wrinkle.
7. Remove body from water, pat (don't rub!) dry.
8. Top body with oat/menthol mixture
9. Shiver uncontrollably in cold apartment air

Step 4:

Add oats to tepid water, stirring to avoid clumps like that one straight in the middle

Step 8:

Mmmm.... minty!

And VOILA! There you have it!  

Sure, you're freezing and you feel kind of slimy, but I'm telling you, guys, your skin will be SO SOFT! PLUS, your teeth will be chattering so hard and you'll be shivering, so you'll burn, like, a MILLION calories -- can we say BO-NUS?!? 

Oh and, you know, any weird patches of scaly, itchy skin you might have been experiencing beforehand will be miraculously gone. But that's kind of beside the point. 

Because oatmeal is SO. AWESOME!

Ok guys so....I promise that now that I'm in the club and stuff, my content totally won't change. I'm the same simple girl I always was, just trying to balance my life and share it with you, my humble, unassuming readers.

Now get me my Oaty Latte, and don't forget to sprinkle it with free granola...bitch!!