Yesterday I called my dad because I wanted to chat. And by that I mean I wanted to talk and I wanted him to listen, kind of like a monologue but substantially less interesting.

“Hi dad, how are you…how nice. Did you know I am in the middle of a fucking blizzard?”

“It must be beautiful.”

“No, it is not”

“Don’t worry darling it’s cold here too—it got down to 50 degrees.”

It was then that I had to inform him that 50 degrees is in fact not even slightly cold, 50 degrees is a poncho with nothing underneath weather. It was then that I realized my father didn’t understand weather-toughened, east-coast-blizzard-enduring me, quite similar to LA me but a little less pathetic. It was then that I had to tell him the truth about blizzards.

If your parents are from the west coast or really any place where your high school doesn’t have heat because they don’t need it (we in fact did need it we just didn’t have it), where one tree changes color and you point to it as evidence that you do indeed have seasons, where people moan when the temperature dips below 65 then it is time to talk to your parents about blizzards.

1. Walking in snow is like walking in deep sand but much less amusing.
2. Snow may look pretty but it is actually a complete douche bag.
3. Blizzards shut things down like Claire’s Cornucopia.
4. And most importantly as you will most likely be killed by an arrant icicle or fall into the snow and suffocate it would be preferable if they gave you the respect you deserve before it is too late.