Things You Need When You're Snowed In

Jack Blizzard is stewing out west, planning to dump another 3-6" of snow on us over the next couple days. On top of the mountains already on the ground, that should make for a fine mess and will put us, again, at the mercy of kindly neighbors and their tractors. But I won't be caught off-guard this time. The Christmas Ought-Nine Blizzard taught me what to have on hand when the next round buries us...

1. Food. When you’re stocking up, know that after a day or two of being snowed in, you will crave only empty carbs. Pioneer spirit kicks in. By day two or three, you will cut imported Nan bread or whole grain tortillas into small triangles, deep-fry them in olive oil, and sprinkle with nacho cheese popcorn salt, just to have some chips. Then you’ll stir French onion soup mix or Cajun seasoning into cream cheese for dip. Isolation will make you feed all the baby carrots and apple wedges to the dogs.

2. Water. You’ll give up bathing after a couple days because, well, why bother, but you’ll want plenty of fresh drinking water. When you’re stuck inside, with the wood stove cranking and the furnace picking up the slack, staying hydrated will prevent your dry, freckled, northern European skin from flaking off in sheets.

3. Comfort Bevvies. Stock up on coffee, cream, eggnog, Bailey’s Irish Cream, and red wine. We all know you’ll die without coffee--nuff said about that. “Beggnog” (Bailey’s & eggnog) will create the illusion of merriment. And alternating Beggnog with red wine will (a) keep your blood pressure within normal limits; (b) provide enough sedation to keep you from delusional wandering out into the blizzard; and (c) prevent domestic disputes caused by extreme close proximity.

4. Vitamin D & Full-Spectrum Lightbulbs. Being snowed in means even less sunlight than prairie people typically get over a long winter. The lightbulbs will simulate sunlight as you skim your way through yet another wretched pulp murder mystery novel. And scientists are now discovering that large daily doses of D, say 1000-3000 IU’s, can prevent winter depression, the flaking off of dry freckled skin, and an odd ancestral longing for furry horned hats and lutefisk.

5. Internet. Symptoms of Internet withdrawal include twitching, delusions, waking several times a night to list things you must Google, talking to your spouse in clipped Facebook wall-post speech, involuntary rapid finger movements, and more twitching. Trying to open Firefox every 60 seconds will not restore a lost Internet connection and will only exacerbate withdrawal symptoms.

6. Layered Clothes. You’ll need a snowsuit at least 3 sizes larger than you normally wear. This will accommodate the six layers you’ll wear under it, including: (1) regular underwear, preferably heavy cotton; (2) thermal long johns, preferably silk; (3) wool socks worn on the outside of the long johns; (4) wool leggings worn over the socks to keep your bad knees warm; (5) a fleece vest (skip the bra--"perky" is undetectable under the layers); (6) railroad overalls and a wool turtleneck. Once you’re dressed, you’ll be too exhausted to pull on your mukluks, so strip back down to your long johns, make coffee, and find a bad movie to watch.

7. Bad Movies. Don’t watch good movies. You can’t risk the emotional tinderbox of two adults stuck in the same house, both questioning the nature or existence of God/compassion/civility/love/mortality. Stick with films about zombies, cheerleaders, alien slime monsters, poorly edited martial arts, or anything starring David Hasselhoff.

8. A Boat. Snow-in’s are a good time to build that small boat in your basement. It gives you something to do, lets you vent your pent-up frustrations with power tools, and ensures that in April, when the snow finally melts and your 7 acres turns into Uncannery Lake, you'll have a way out to the road.

9. Hope. Call people who live in town. Watch only TV shows/films set in sunny, warm locations. Turn your calendar ahead to June. Know that somewhere in the world, people are moving about, visiting each other, and carrying on as usual. Know that someday you’ll be back out there, too. But do a good, slow job on the boat, just in case.