Tag Archives: winter

How to spend a snow day

Snow days are boring.

I know, I know. We love them. Ain’t many things better than a snow day, right? They get us out of school and work, and we sure do like getting out of school and work. School and work are not the greatest. But know what is the greatest? Being smart and having money. Both of those things are fantastic, and that’s what school and work will get you.

Know what a snow day will get you? Dirty teeth, dirty underpants, and about 24 hours of house arrest. (You know you’ve had at least one snow day where you didn’t brush your choppers or change your unders, don’t you dare say otherwise.)

I had a snow day this past Saturday. I’m not sure if a snowy weekend day can be considered a true snow day, but since I now work at a corporation that means serious business, weekend snow days are the only ones I get.

This snow day was ever more boring than most because I was alone. My parents and Chico were in Connecticut and Curtis was at some foosball game, so it was just Dizzy and me. Here’s a tattoo I once gave myself while at work, but was also appropriate for this snow day:

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A very cool, reasonable thing for an adult woman to write on herself.

Not long into Saturday’s boring snow day, I decided, “Nay, today will not be a waste. Today, you finna do some things.”

I did do some things, and I felt all right about them. I’d like to share what I did with anyone else who’s looking for a productive way to pass a snow day.

Things to do on a snow day, especially if you’re in the crib by your lonesome

Clean out your wallet
If your wallet is fat as hell with old receipts and other pieces of crap, throw those things away. While cleaning out my wallet, I found a receipt for a post office in Puerto Rico and an expired coupon for a butcher shop. A butcher shop! As if I’m some type of cosmopolitan, buying my meats from a butcher. No way, José. I make my meat purchases at the grocery store.

Take a shower
Showers sometimes suck. On a snowy winter’s day, though, a shower is tight. Hop into that steamy stream with a couple of carrots and a glass of Diet Coke, you’ll have yourself a right old time.

Shovel your driveway
Shoveling your driveway doesn’t sometimes suck—it always sucks. It is not at all an enjoyable way to pass a couple hours. I gots a question for you though: Do you go to the gym? Do you run on treadmills or ellipse on elliptical machines? Because shoveling is a workout too, and it is 100 times better than running on some damn treadmill. Think about that word even, treadmill. A mill for your treads, a factory for your steps! Every time you use a treadmill, that’s unpaid labor. That’s unjust.

Holy moly. I just Googled “treadmill history” and learned they were invented in the 1800s as an instrument of prison discipline.

Shovel your driveway. Get exercise the moral way.

Drink apple juice
Apple juice is bomb, why wouldn’t you want to drink it? Have yourself a glass or two, you’ll deserve it after all that snow shoveling. Maybe take it into the shower with you, even.

Watch Pretty Woman for the first time
It’s a movie that plays for free on TV, why wouldn’t you want to watch it?

I missed the first half hour when I watched it and I have a serious request. Can anyone explain to me a premise that justifies Richard Gere hiring a prostitute that’s almost half his age? Seriously, I need some help understanding it. Are we supposed to accept that, sometimes, perfectly decent men sometimes pay for lovin? Richard Gere’s character seemed like a nice enough dude (and certainly dreamy enough), but how is he not a creep? Am I wrong for assuming all johns are scoundrels? If Julia Roberts can look past it, should I too? Someone please explain.

Bake a pizza
Since you’re home by yourself, you’ll get to eat as much of it as you want. Happy Snow Day to you!

Go to bed a 9pm
It’s just a good time to go to bed, no matter the circumstances.

By the way I was joshing you earlier. Snow days are dope, you and I both know that. Hope this list helps make your next snow day a real good one.

Self-Confidence and Social Media

My friend Katie and I went for a hike over the weekend. We brought skis and dogs to a small mountain where the snow came down through the pines on the hillside, muffling the groans of branches when it gusted and the creaks our feet made in the packed powder of the trail. At the peak we slid into ski boots and clicked into bindings, skiing down through falling snow while the dogs padded alongside—quiet and cold, the type of day that changes your life.

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BARF.

Holy moly writing that was terrible. I plagiarized half that diarrhea from a Hemingway book and still it’s making my insides burn with shatred. That’s a combo of shame and hatred and sharts, and it barely describes the amount of discomfort that paragraph makes me feel. “The type of day that changes your life.” Again:

BARF.

But after you’re done throwing up, you can admit it sounded a little bit dope, right? Not the trying-too-hard paragraph, but the hiking experience itself. Katie and I really did hike up a mountain and ski down it with our dogs in tow. Doesn’t it make us sound like a couple of cool Maine ladies who spend their days backcountrying around the backcountry, chilling with four-legged creatures, and adventuring?

Imagine if I posted about our hike on Instagram. That picture of me with the skis and the dogs, with a Walden filter, and some caption about winter and Maine and snow. Maybe I tag L.L.Bean in it. Maybe I quote Robert Frost.

“You can’t get too much winter in the winter.” –Robert Frost, Snow
#winter #maine #llbean #mansbestfriend #rescuepups #alwaysadopt

If I posted that on Instagram, you might think I was pretentious, but you also might think I was a lil bit cool. Quoting poets, rescuing dogs, hiking snowy mountains. You’d have no idea that I had to Google “Robert Frost quotes” to find that Robert Frost quote. Or that my dog didn’t come from a shelter—he came from a breeder, and I had to barter away months of my life in order to afford that tiny, expensive bed-whizzer. Or that my snowy hike last weekend was not at all life-changing, that in fact it sucked 100% balls.

It was less than two miles to the top but Katie and I each almost had true mental breakdowns on that hike. Our backs hurt, our feet froze, and snowmobilers kept trying to murder us. It took half an hour to get into our ski boots, I was convinced I shattered my Achilles tendon, and when we finally succeeded in putting our skis on, we learned the way back down was not down at all. That shady ass mountain was actually a field in disguise—we had to trek it cross-country style the whole way back. That hike was made of snot rockets and swear words, and it effin blew. But you wouldn’t know it from that picture.

I try to remember that every time I go on Instagram. I’m following lots of people who do cool things, and sometimes I get a little down on myself. My feed’s full of people’s pictures of their houses and vacations and brand new cars. Meanwhile, I’m living with my parents and starting collection jars for candy bars.* Every time I see a cool picture and I feel myself getting jealous, I think of all the ways it could actually suck.

  • Photo of someone’s new house: They have rats living in their walls.
  • Photo of a nice gift from a boyfriend: Their boyfriend is their cousin and also a thief.
  • Photo out of an airplane window: The person in the seat next to them has measles. And is also their boyfriend, the cousin/thief.
  • Photo at the gym, post-workout: They have rats at home, remember, so they like to get out the crib and Planet Fitness is open 24 hours.
  • Photo of their feet near water, someplace warm: The rest of their body is covered in rats. And hickeys from their cousin.

Really, all you have to do is add in rats and incest. Nobody’s life sounds good when you add in rats and incest.

*I’m up to 45 cents, if anyone would like to contribute.

Surfing in the Winter

If you want to surf somewhere cold—like Maine in the winter, maybe—the first step is getting a thick wetsuit. If you don’t already have a thick wetsuit, visit your local surf shop and follow these steps:

AT THE SURF SHOP
Seek help from one of the friendly employees. Ideally you’ll find the owner of the shop, maybe a 60ish-year-old gentleman named John, and he’ll lead you to the wetsuit section of the store. You’ll want to be on your cell phone at this point, so John knows you’re important and not that serious about wetsuits. But you’ll also want him to sympathize with you, so knock over a skateboard display and fart a rotten one. This will show him you’re both down-to-earth and helpless, and it will endear you to him.

PICKING OUT THE SUIT
Follow John’s lead on this one. He knows how cold the waters can get, and will recommend the right ones to keep you warm. Some of them will have hoods, some will not—just make sure you tell him your sisters used to suffocate you under blankets and that you hate constrictive clothing and struggle with claustrophobia. He will not understand, but you’ll feel better having told him.

THE FITTING ROOM
John will escort you to the fitting room, likely located directly across from the main entrance of the store. Tell him you’re wearing underpants—not a bathing suit—under your clothes, and ask if that’s cool. Remember, you will have earned his pity from the skateboards and the farts, and he’ll reluctantly let it slide.

TRYING ON THE SUITS
Put on the first wetsuit. Since it’s supposed to be warm enough for cold-water surfing, it’s going to be crazy thick—six millimeters, even. Squirm your way in as best as you can. Then, once you’ve zipped yourself up, walk out from the fitting room and into the main part of the store, and ask John to check you out. He’ll tell you your crotch is sagging, and then he’ll make you tug at your junk for the next ten minutes. Finally he’ll tell you the wetsuit’s positioned correctly, and you’ll tell him you’re choking and that you “hate this so much.” Retreat to the fitting room.

TAKING OFF THE SUITS
Remember how you squirmed your way into the wetsuit? You will now realize that your shoulders are too broad and your fingers too weak to squirm your way back out. Tug helplessly for five minutes, get so sweaty the suit sticks to you even worse, and then run out of the fitting room shouting for help. Remind John about how much you hate constrictive clothing. Ask him to get you out of that GODDAMN THICK ASS FUCKING WETSUIT.

STILL TAKING OFF THE SUITS
It will require two people—John and a high school girl who works there—to get you out of the wetsuit. When they’re done, thank them by explaining, again, how your sisters used to try to suffocate you with blankets. You will notice both John and the girl are uncomfortable yet amused. Look down and realize you are in your underpants in the middle of the store (just the top half, but still definitely underpants). Hasten back to the fitting room.

NEXT STEPS
Do not buy a wetsuit. Do not surf anywhere cold.

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