You know you live in Alaska when ...
You never use an umbrella.
You name your children after landforms, tree species or snowmachine parts.You wear fleece, wool and down year round.
You don’t get into “fender-benders”; Alaskans “roll in the ditch.”
You’re into shooting stuff.
You eat reindeer for breakfast.
You stack firewood for the intellectual challenge.
You are proficient in the use of Visqueen.
You shave with ulu knives.
You toss fish scraps out in the yard and call it a “bird feeder.”
You hunt moose from your deck.
You get married wearing Carhartts.
You’ve conceived a child wearing Carhartts.
You’re born wearing Carhartts.
Whether you drive a Subaru, a rusty Toyota, a behemoth American 4x4 or a crazy homemade Frankentruck with massive spotlights and built-in gun mounts -- the front fender’s dented and the windshield’s cracked.
You name your 16-foot cabin cruiser with a bad boating/fishing pun like “Hot Ruddered Bum”.
You drink a double mocha latte with extra whipped cream and sprinkles with a loaded .44 strapped to your leg.
You’re so vitamin D deficient, you’ve contemplated mainlining fish oil.
You’re notoriously averse to paying state income tax, but have no problem shelling out $500 to the DMV for a vanity license plate no one can understand.
You strap on crampons for your morning commute.
You consider 60 degrees “hot.”
You no longer suffer from seasonal affective disorder -- indeed, you’ve grown so used to lacking natural UV light you’ve developed seasonal affective disorder disorder.
You appreciate a fine tarp.
You always take off your boots whenever you go inside, without necessarily removing your bloodstained fly-fishing vest.
You eat cinnamon rolls. A whole lot of cinnamon rolls.
You simultaneously complain about things not being like they were back in the good old days and, in the same breath, about your 4G LTE running slow lately.
You’ve had at least one dangerous wild animal in your garage.
You give your kids ammo for Christmas.
You complain about all the snow until it suddenly stops for a few weeks, at which point you start complaining about its absence.
You can’t resist a sale on ice cream.
You start preparing for winter in July.
You start preparing for the Fourth of July in January.
You’ve patched at least one piece of outerwear with duct tape and would do the same with underwear, too, if duct tape didn’t so readily adhere to body hair.
You covet thy neighbor’s arctic entry.
You’ve become desensitized to scraping bear scat from your shoe treads.
You absolutely can’t conceive of living anywhere else. Well, except maybe Hawaii for two weeks in February, but even then you’ll never quite shake feeling like you’re missing out on whatever’s going on up here.
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