If you haven’t heard already, DC and its surrounding parts are getting lots of snow. Not lots of it by colder standards, but enough to shut down the city and the Federal government. A mighty feat. People in my neighborhood have been reduced to trudging clumsily to corner stores, recyclable shopping bags with prominent logos in hand, to stock up on those staples of milk and bread and wine. There’s a constant ticker of closings on the news, programming that’s pre-empting our usual fare of Access Hollywood and the like. There have been more substantial problems, of course, widespread reports (numbering in the low thousands) of residents without power, leaving many without heat, home interior temps likely in the 40s. Oppressive conditions compared to what we’re all used to, to be sure.

I can’t help but think that we’ve got to get a little perspective. Let’s be honest; there are people sleeping on grates in this very city tonight, afraid to go to crowded shelters for fear of having their prized possessions stolen, and I’m griping about the six blocks I’m forced to walk to clean a corner store out of Diet Coke. Lengthy Safeway lines try the very soul, but we’re clothed and the biggest decisions we likely made this weekend were whether to make a seven- or six-layer dip for the Super Bowl. Or which friend’s house we’d camp out at for a few days. And whether or not we’d take the hair dryer. I’ve been wondering just how I’ll spend my nights being stuck inside without access to a car. Cabin fever, as ridiculous as it sounds.

I’ve been thinking a fair amount about this in relation to what’s happened in Haiti, the terror and destruction that news accounts can’t possibly bring us close to comprehending. I’m always proud of Americans in times like these, when we dig deep and use our texting skills to help someone other than our closest, sacrificing a tank of gas or a movie On Demand or whatever it is to which our personal donations amounted. I’m wondering, though, how I’d feel as one of those in DC sleeping on a grate, other than the obvious. I remember well the large fundraisers of my life, the Feed the World songster gatherings and Live Aids and televised celebrity telethons with a full lineup of heavily made-up faces. I wonder how I’d feel if I were at a shelter, watching those events unfold. What about me? I’d think. Where are my millions in aid?

I guess we all do our local part, by helping a neighbor dig her Ford out of a four-foot snow drift or feeding that nuisance of a cat that demolishes the building’s trash at least once a month. I haven’t done much of anything, to be honest. Everyone around me is well equipped to make it to next week and my cats are well if not overly fed. One is presently passed out with her snout five inches from the space heater. I’ve checked on my mother in her waterfront condo and emailed my sister to see how her interviews in Europe went today and, despite my proclaimed hiatus from Twitter, have checked in to ensure everyone is still breathing. Tonight, I’ll read The Help and check work email and watch Lost and other shows I’ve been saving for the week I finally get H1N1 or find myself stranded much like this. With a full fridge. And a glass of Prosecco. That’s my perspective.