I've started watching Saturday Night Live again recently. I didn't really want to – most of what I 'd seen in the past few years had been pretty lackluster, a collection of fart jokes that paled in comparison to the old Steve Martin/Dan Akroyd days of glory. Still, two things brought me back to SNL: 1) that Amy Poehler, one of my favorite comedians, joined the cast and 2) it's a shitty thing to talk about how you like comedy and then not know what's going on currently in the comedy world.

I will say, I've been pleasantly surprised by some of the stuff I've seen, and I have a decent amount of respect for a number of the actors on there, especially Kristen Wiig and Maya Rudolph. It's always refreshing to see funny female comedians in places of prominence, and they're both doing some pretty amazing stuff. I've become especially obsessed with Kristen’s Target Lady and Two A-Holes sketches.

Unfortunately, I have also found my share of bathroom humor and cheap shots. It's not that I dislike those things as a whole, but there's so many of them, which points to a larger problem – these guys pull together an hour of sketch comedy in a week. A week. I don't care if you have 20 brilliant comedic minds writing and acting, a week is not a lot of time. And so what could be a gorgeous, tight half-hour sketch comedy show gets filled with fluff and pumped up to an hour.

And of course, I need to recognize that SNL is one of the largest comedy shows out there, and their target audience is huge. A lot of the jokes, I'm sure, are crafted for broad, base appeal – I'm not going to like them all. Still, it's sad to see a bunch of great comedians working together to create what boils down to 10-20 minutes of really solid material a week. But I'm still watching.

Sickness grabbed on to my pretty little chest last Monday and has been doing a good job since at crawling around my insides. I didn’t go to work for most of the week, but instead spent it in a sleeping, drooling (yes, I did drool a couple of times) stupor. Today is the first day I’ve felt remotely normal, and I still can’t do anything for too long without feeling worn out or lapsing into a coughing fit.

Needless to say, I haven’t been very productive lately. I did, however, manage to finish one project, my ode to Laika:

Laika was, for those of you who don’t know, the first dog shot into space by the Russians. I’ve become kind of obsessed with her lately. You can read more about her on Wikipedia.

My home city of Philadelphia has followed New York's lead and passed a bill to ban trans fats in restaurants. This is not good. Our government should not be spending its time passing bills protecting us from ourselves. It's that simple. Yeah, there is a huge weight problem in our country. But if we are to be trusted as adult citizens, we need to be trusted to proactively take care of our own health. If the city is worried about our poor eating habits, they need to focus on nutrition education and improving our access to good foods. Simply cutting people off from a certain food, however bad it is for us, is not the right way to improve our health.

I've also heard some people referring to the smoking ban like it's the same thing as the trans fat ban –- designed to protect people from themselves. I disagree. The smoking ban is more about protecting non-smokers from second-hand smoke. If you eat a cheesesteak next to me, I'm not going to accidentally inhale a glob of cheese whiz. If you smoke next to me, yeah, that's going in my lungs.

Still, I do think smokers should be allowed to smoke somewhere. I'm not saying that I think people should smoke –- it's incredibly unhealthy, and you're an idiot if you think otherwise. But as people, we own our own bodies. We should be allowed to do whatever we want with them as long as it doesn't hurt anyone else. If I want to eat french fries, if I want to smoke, whatever –- I should to be allowed to do it. This sack of skin and bones is mine.

There are thousands of things that the government should be doing to help and protect its people. Taking away their fats is not one of them.

On my old site, I used to have a Picture of the Day section. It was updated very infrequently, rendering the name not-quite-accurate. I suspect things will be similar here.

8 a.m., 33rd and Chestnut, Philadelphia, PA

400 Words is a neat little lit mag that features short, 400-word (or less!) essays on a particular topic. Right now the topic is work, and I have a piece up on their website about employment in the glamorous world of TV shopping. Check it out!

Most people I associate with know I hate winter. I scowl at snow; I make disparaging comments about low temperatures. I complain about my stiff fingers and toes, about how I have to wear two pairs of socks, and about how long underwear is glued to my body straight from November to April. I am a warm weather creature. I am happiest at 85 degrees, when the same t-shirt and skirt combination that kept me cool during the day is enough to keep me warm at night. Hell, I don’t even mind the sweating. In summer, sweat is acceptable and expected. In the winter, when I bundle up warm, I often end up sweating in my armpits and freezing in my feet. What kind of sense does that make?

At the same time, however, I did grow up in Northern New Hampshire. I’m not saying this to imply that I should be used to the cold; I’ve heard that line a number of times, and I’m fairly well sick of it. But I do love being outside, and I have weathered many winters. There is something about them hardwired in me. So last night I went out walking in Philadelphia on a night when most people wouldn’t, when the temperature hovered around nine degrees and I was bound up in layers of down and wool, cotton and polypropylene. And when I was walking, the wind that blew through this city felt like a real New Hampshire wind.

The New Hampshire wind in winter is hollow. It’s isolating. It rides over the snow and through the spindles of trees. It makes things creek. It rumbles a dull roar in the background that some people, unfamiliar with it, mistake for a river being nearby. Standing in the woods listening to that wind is one of the greatest feelings of solitude I know. I feel like the only thing alive. It’s post-apocalyptic. It’s scary.

But when I heard it last night, when I heard it in the city, it gave me a great, welling feeling of being home.

It’s not too late to serve the ultimate football-watching fare at your Super Bowl party! Wing shots are an easy-to-prepare food and drink combination that are sure to satisfy even the hungriest and thirstiest football fans.

Ingredients:

• 12 oz. beer
• Hot wing

Directions:

Pour the 12 oz. of beer into a glass. Drop the hot wing in and consume the contents of the glass immediately, as you would with any “drop-in” shot drink, such as an Irish Car Bomb. Delish!