Just in case the world ends on Wednesday, Jan. 29, with this epic and historic winter storm, I have begun this diary so that eons from now, when the Great Thaw frees my body from this icy grave, maybe future generations will know.
They need to know.
Snowmeggeddon Diary Day One - 12:00 noon: It is 65 degrees and the word has gone out. Snow is forecast for Wednesday and the adjectives “epic” and “historic” have been used to describe it.
Panic has set in.
A run on Walmart has ensued with mass quantities of milk, eggs, and bread purchased. The shelves and refrigerator case have been ransacked.
French Toast for everyone.
12:21 p.m.: I have candles (scented) and matches. I bought a pair of gloves with no fingers and a pair of socks. I don’t see the point in gloves with no fingers. Gloves with no fingers are like socks with no toes, so I start rooting around through my sock drawer for my “Church Socks.”
It will, though, smell nice, like Bahama breeze and pineapple cilantro.
1:23 p.m.: It is 65 degrees. Frigid. Turned on the Weather Channel to see stern faces and grim expressions, calling this the worst snowstorm ever. They have named this storm system Winter Storm Janus. I snort derisively and turn off the TV. Idiots don’t even know how to spell Janice. (Yes, I know they called it Leon).
2:05 p.m.: The problem with buying snow emergency food supplies is I eat all the emergency food supplies before the actual emergency.
Cocoa Puffs — Gone.
Cocoa Krispies — Gone.
Chips, dip and assorted other snacks — Severely damaged.
Beverages — Almost gone — (Burp!) - Nope, gone.
Snowmaggeddon Diary Day Two – 3:09 a.m.: Temperatures drop to 49 degrees. Time to switch out of the Bermuda shorts into my snow pants.
3:11 a.m.: I’m reminded why I hated wearing snow pants when I was a kid. They’re slick, like “ZING!” slick. Every time I roll over I slide off the couch.
Survival is a never-ending battle.
8:39 a.m.: Dawn has arrived, a fading gray stain yet still no ice pellets. I have survived the first night. I turn on the TV and yes, the rumors are true, angel choir sing praises to his name - Hallelujah! Jim Cantore is indeed in Charleston.
10:12 a.m.: Stepped outside in my snow pants. Felt a chill… a draft. Wearing snow pants with your fly open is like wearing gloves without fingers.
6:34 p.m.: Supping on emergency supplies - Cocoa Puffs, homemade chicken noodle soup, a 40-pack of hot chocolate mix, ham and cheese sandwiches, French toast on the grill in the morning if I lose power. I will be the only person emerging from this winter storm melee to have gained five pounds.
8:05 p.m.: IT’S SNOWING! WE’RE ALL GONNA &$%#@ DIE!
They’re going to find me like Jack Nicholson at the end of The Shining.
9:03 p.m.: I aspire to be like Jim Cantore. In the middle of his remote weather report an overzealous college student tried to hone in on some of Jim’s face time on camera. Jim deflected the student’s advances with a well-placed knee to the groin and did not miss a beat in his report, or take his eyes off camera. Now that’s what I call a “Scientist.”
Snowmeggeddon Day Three - 9:21 a.m.: Ventured out into the icy tundra to survey and record the damage. Found an icicle and a couple angry birds. Note to Self: Take coat to laundry on Friday.