Fresh Powder

Did everybody hear the east coast got a light dusting of snow over the weekend?



Of course you did. There's no storm like the palpable fear of millions of outdoors-averse people preparing for (and tweeting about) the anticipated disruption of Seamless delivery.

Rome fell overextended, bloated with power and corruption. New York City will crumble if ever faced with a week sans wifi and Thai take out.

Friday night's storm was the perfect excuse to hunker down, cook burgers, finish House of Cards and watch the snow fall. (And while we're on the subject: House of Cards. Watch. It.)

The night before

I most definitely choose blizzard over hurricane, in terms of New Yorker panic management. Hardly any snacks were choked down in fear. No bath tubs were filled with an eye on disposing future fecal developments. My duck boots got their feet wet (and kept mine dry).

In short, it was snow that I've experienced countless times, having come of age in Chicago and Boston. Lovely, lovely snow.

Snow pirate?