A diminutive and lovely American woman in a smart Connecticut home sat out Nemo with her elderly parents. Among other things she waded through deep snow to find and clear furnace vents; she used a pole to shake snow from her service electrical lines and nearby trees.
I wasn't there, more's the pity, but there's no doubt in my mind that she needed no last-minute dash for milk and toilet paper, meaning she was no candidate for a dramatic feature story on the horrors of being suddenly trapped in her car in a storm well-advertised for days.
With preparations made and immediately necessary actions taken, she seemed to enjoy her little break from the outside world, laughing and joking her way through white Armageddon, warm, secure, properly fed and I confidently guess, properly wined. After all, she bears an honest Irish surname.
Meanwhile, a million less sentient northeasterners suffered -- out of Perrier, down to the last pound of lox, the electric teevee won't work, that sort of deprivation. Never mind the frantically punched wireless devices seeking word on how much they might get from FEMA as a result of living in a place where it snowed.
Still, the Irish girl and her like represent a useful cadre of citizens, people with at least a modest ability to see more than two commercials ahead and plan for survival in comfort when nature does what it routinely does. Their existence suggests a remaining hope for America, even in the age of Mommy Dotguv on whom all happiness depends. (Please, Your Ineptness, make the Republicans stop causing blizzards.) It is a cozy thought, so you shouldn't screw it up by reading the news.
At New York's Fashion Week, women tottered on 4-inch heels through the snow to get to the tents to see designers' newest collections.