I think it was Lucy Van Pelt who noted that snow wasn't really ripe until February. That means we just got some of the ripest stuff on record (they're calling this the second biggest snowstorm on record for New York City, the last being in 1947). At least, if "they"=WCBS-TV.
I went out. I love snow, and I love when it's snowing. Things were a bit sting-y when it blew in your face, but I grabbed the camera and checked out the 'hood.
I actually had some errands, but the library was closed, ditto the pharmacy (though not the rest of Duane Reade, damn their hides). The pet store was open, so I snagged some food for the dog.
Also picked up a slice of Sicilian -- pizza guys just have to be available on such days.
People are really just friendlier in the snow, at least when it's fresh. Kids are outside making snowballs and fairly pathetic snowpeople, and when one little one falls on his rear in the stuff it's clownish and cute; the father watching looked up at me grinning and grinned back. People give you little looks like "hey, whatcha gonna do, aren't we toughing this out together?" when you walk by on the street and there's a real sense of comradeship.
I'm sure there's some study worth doing on faux-apocalyptic bonding; I mean, if we were really going to be stranded for weeks or months there'd be no grinning and things would get ugly fast. (Hello, avian flu -- a friend of mine says she's already stocking up supplies "in case.") But on a day when the world turns white and you know it'll all be over by nighttime and tomorrow will be slushy and manageable and Monday, it's okay to have a little fun with it all.
UPDATE: Actually, it's the record, not the second in line, as of this evening (again, as per WCBS-TV.)
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