Allow me to divulge a secret from the Great White North: For some of us, snowstorms are freakin' fabulous.

Yes, I realize that for a lot of folks, blizzards are a pain. If it is your wedding day and you sent out 200 invitations waaaay back in October on a blazingly sunny afternoon; if you are about to give birth to twins any day now; or if you have three kids with the croup, then it's probably not the forecast for you. 

Bottom line, snow elicits different emotions.

For instance, the movies have us snowed by their version of winter weather. In film, everyone lives nearby and can stroll to friends' and families' homes for a cup of hot cider and a warm chat, wearing matching cashmere accessories and a smile. On screen, people who initially thought they despised each other are bound to fall passionately in love when they are stranded in a luxuriously-decorated, modern mountain cabin that has silk sheets in every bedroom, a latte machine and a working hot tub.  

On the other hand, the TV news typically makes snow seem as if it is the equivalent of Armageddon, featuring stories about people wrestling each other in the supermarket bread aisle for the last bag of bagels or standing anxiously in mile-long lines at Home Depot to get their paws on that last shovel or snowblower.

For me, however, an occasional snowstorm represents an opportunity that rests somewhere in between the movie version and the TV "start-panicking-now!" reports. After all, the with modern metrological technology, we are alerted about impending winter storms by at least the Fourth of July, so we have loads of time to get ready. For me, proper preparation starts with some food staples - dinner items, breakfast products and munchies I'd never buy unless it was a special occasion or a Tuesday.  Add some wine, some decent DVDs (OK, "Bright Star" was slow, but who cares? I'm not going anywhere...), some good books, those sections of the newspaper I never had a chance to read last week and I'm all set.

During this weekend's record-breaking 28 or so inches in Philly, I stayed in my jammies til noon watching Project Runway On Demand and I bet you there were plenty of DiDi doppelgangers out there doing the same exact thing. It's the height of decadence, swaddled in flannel, sipping a cup of Earl Grey and watching Heidi Klum bring a young designer from Iowa to tears because his cocktail ensemble was an absolute, what-were-you-thinking disaster.

For the rest of the weekend, my hubby Dave and I hunkered down in front of our wood-burning stove in our den/dining room, grabbed another Girl Scout cookie and let it snow, let it snow, let it snow. Church? No can do! Exercise? Impossible. Walk the dog? I'm afraid it's the backyard for you, puppy!

So don't feel too sorry for us Northern folk when the Weather Channel paints a gloom-and-doom picture of our forecast. Yes, it's gonna snow, but we will manage, trust me. We will be well read, well fed, well informed and, well... relaxed.

Why? Because snowstorms can be a blast. 

What's that? They're predicting another foot of snow in the Philadelphia region this week?

True, it was fun and all that, but let's not make a dang habit of this. In the meantime, clear out the bread aisle, sister - girlfriend is on her way...

You think you have it tough?
How would you like to be the woman who recently lost her balance at New York's Metropolitan Museum of Art (aka, "The Met") and caused a six inch tear in The Actor, a famous painting by Picasso. (Doris, I told you to stop wearing those seven inch spikes!")

Now that's a bummer of a cultural outing.

And it's not the first time a Picasso work has been accidentally gashed. Several years ago, Las Vegas hotel bigshot Steve Wynn was showing some pals his Picasso painting, The Dream, and mistakenly caused a six inch boo-boo in that $139 million piece. (What's with the six inches - standard "ooooppps" fare?) Wynn has an eye condition that restricts his vision and he didn't realize that he was elbowing the artwork. Bet he fervently wished it was all a dream...

Anyway, whether you get dizzy all of a sudden or you can't see very well, if you screw-up a painting that's valued at $100 mill, it's gotta hurt. I break things all the time - one of my high school friends crowned me "Diane the Destroyer" 30 years ago - so I can relate, believe me. However, the items I obliterate with my clumsiness are worth about $3.95, retail. If I tripped and went head first into something irreplaceable that cost a fortune, I'd be petrified to ever leave my house again.

So if your week is getting off to a bad start, don't fret. You could be slippin' and slidin' into a priceless work of art, you nitwit. Instead, you're just breaking a few wine glasses from the Dollar Store.

See? I told ya, things are looking better already!

OK, we've addressed this before: code phrases.

You know, any public figure who resigns their position because they "want to spend more time with my family" really means "the jig is up and I'm about to be uncovered as a pedophile/addict/pathological liar/werewolf."

Ditto for sports legend/he-man Mark McGwire. He finally admitted to taking steroids. Three baseball cheers for you, Mark, for 'fessing up! But wait, don't get too excited because after that statement, he quickly added: "I did this for health purposes. There's no way I did this for any type of strength purposes."

Are you kidding me? The only thing he wanted to strengthen was his ERA and his IRA. But, no, McGwire insisted that someone told him that steroids would help speed his recovery from a heel injury. (Oh, Achilles, where are ya when we need you?) Really, Mark? You don't say. And did this very same person also try to sell you some land up in Alaska?

Speaking of Alaska, I just read that when she was governor, Sarah Palin had a tanning bed installed in the state mansion. She never commented publicly on using the device, but her supporters stood up for her, claiming that she needed the artificial light because there's not a lot of sun in Alaska. OK, folks, once again, say what you mean: Carcinogens aside, just admit that Mother Sarah wanted to look like a hot bronzed goddess when she was winking her way through the campaign trail.

Me, once in a while I get into trouble for saying what I mean, so I'm trying to learn to zip it.

However, if I call a press conference, start flexing my tanned biceps, and announce that I want to spend more time with my relatives, all I gotta say is, take it all with a grain of you-know-what.

I just have one question to ask: How do you passionately make-out with someone with a camera person only three feet away?

Back in my make-out days, I couldn't indulge in Public Displays of Affection if anyone was in the same room. It was icky to suck face with someone while your friends were schmoozing nearby. How do you think the term "get a room!" was invented? It's code for "for God's sake, kiss in private, you perverts."

But watch TV classics like "The Bachelor" or "Jersey Shore" and you'll see more tongue than an orthodontist. And here's the kicker: Nary a one of them is even the slightest bit embarrassed or hesitant to lock lips for all of America to see. I could swear that I saw one contestant on "The Bachelor" go so far as to reposition her body angle so the camera could get a clearer shot of her "going in for the kill." The bachelor looked positively petrified...

The Bachelor ladies have nothin' on the "Jersey Shore" guys and dolls. This crew acquires more kissing partners than Tiger Woods in his prime. After a few dozen cocktails, they'll make-out with anyone within a five mile radius of their favorite after-hours club. I'm just waiting to see one of them in a passionate embrace with a cop who is arresting them for disorderly conduct...

As the old song states, a kiss is still a kiss. And if you've ever enjoyed a good kiss, you know that it can be the start of a beautiful relationship. But - and this is just a suggestion - when a lens is adjacent to your molars, why don't you just ask the camera folks to kiss off and (mercifully) fade to black?

Yo, Snookie, Paulie, are youse listening?

I'm telling you, I'm not doing it anymore.

I'm the designated litter-picker-upper on our street. It's a self-appointed position with no remittance and zilch prestige.

People in my neighborhood litter like they are patrons in a movie theater, assuming that some schlub will pick up after them when they throw their trash on the ground. There is a gigantic elementary school on the corner of my street, which is not the main cause of litter in my corner of the world, but it certainly adds to the pile.

Every day, while walking my dog or running to the store, I pick up litter on the sidewalk in front of the school, up and down its front steps and on the corner next to the spot where the administrators park their shiny cars. But no more. I recently noticed teachers, staff, the principal and the maintenance person walking right past empty Salem packs, beer bottles and newspaper pages. Sometimes, when I'd bend down to scoop up some piece of refuse, they'd just hurry past me. What, are they above doing a little dirty work? Am I the only one who sees the soda can thrown right next to the trash can?

That's when I got mad as *#!* and decided that I wasn't gonna take it anymore. I know, it's petty, selfish, spiteful and narrow minded, but I just want to see how long a certain plastic bag is going to stay on the branch of the tree next to the school's entrance.

Of course, I realize that educators and school personnel have far bigger fish to fry these days. But maybe, just maybe, if kids see their leaders take baby steps to make their school look tidier, it might inspire a spark of pride that sets a tone for true learning.

Then again, maybe sometimes an empty Snickers wrapper is just an empty Snickers wrapper.

We shall see. For now, I'm confining my litter pick-up route to the perimeter around my house and the school crowd will have to fend for themselves.  And trust me, this time, I ain't talkin' trash.