What DC means to me

Two weeks from today, I’ll be covering CPAC, the annual conservative political action conference, in Washington. My political views have changed immensely in recent years and months, especially since moving to New York City and observing the shameless, disgusting spending habits and greed of northeasterners, but I’m thrilled nonetheless to reunite with friends and former coworkers. What better place for that than a nerdfest?

CPAC is going to be particularly intriguing this year. For one, Palin has finally agreed to make an appearance. Occupy Wall Street will be a hot topic — and undoubtedly criticized. There’s also that whole upcoming election to take into account. Mitt Romney, who will likely be the GOP candidate, is signed on to speak at the event (it’s unlikely that he’ll announce he’s dropping out this time around, but if he does, conservatives are most definitely screwed). Herman Cain, Andrew Breitbart, Paul Ryan, Newt Gingrich, S.E. Cupp, Ann Coulter, and a bunch of other big name conservative commentators will be there. CPAC is a worthwhile experience no matter what your ideology, and I know I’ll come out of the experience with tons of funny stories and awesome new memories.

Anyway, I look forward to seeing all my friends again and covering the highly anticipated speeches. I’m sure a lot will go down at CPAC, too. I met some awesome people there last year and am glad we’ll have another chance to hang out. You couldn’t pay me to leave New York, but DC is home to some of the greatest friends I’ve ever had, and for that, I cannot totally poke fun at its bureaucratic vibes. Countless good memories were made here, some of which are best described in photos. Here is what I think of when DC comes to mind:

Heaven on earth

Bubble tea from Snap in Georgetown

Intern Katie and Laura, June 2011

Cupcake from Baked and Wired

Nikki and Laura

TheDC party bus

With my cousin's horse in northern Virginia!

Capitol Grounds coffee shop outside TheDC office

Daily Caller and Google party at The Poor House!

The ever ureliable metro

Ameena!

Outside my northern Virginia apartment

After the big 2011 snow storm

Uncle Brian and me in Virginia

With cousin Kerry

My favorite summer peeps

What pushed me through winter 2011

With Chris!

With Kate at the White House!

DC 2008

Overcrowded metro platform at Rosslyn

The view from my old northern Virginia apartment

DC snowfall!

Deserted Dulles airport at 4 a.m.

Lisa and me!

At First Friday with Joey!

Online editor BFFs!

Alec, Kyana, and me at a Daily Caller bar party!

Georgetown or Hogwarts?

Lisa, Joey, and me

With Josh and Tucci!

Daily Caller twins!

 

Daily Caller family!

Needs no caption

Filed under things I never thought I’d do: Yell at a group of Bostonian firefighters

A month ago, an older family friend said her life didn’t turn out as she’d hoped. She didn’t think she would be divorced or working 14-hour days in her sixties. She thought she’d be a tenured English professor by now rather than a saleswoman. Like most people, she didn’t get everything she wanted for herself.

Her disappointment helped me realize that I’m lucky. For the most part, I never dreamed of leading the kind of life I have today. Though I’ve known since age seven that writing was my calling, I never thought I’d have the luxury of doing it full-time or have a thousand or so published articles in my name. I never thought I’d get to interview celebrities, authors, politicians, and other public figures for my job. I never thought my first two places of employment would install kegs in the kitchen and fund office-wide party buses. Most of all, I never expected to reside in New York City. Though my dad, a Fordham graduate and taxi driver, knew everything in the book about New York, I always viewed it as his city. He’d be proud to know I’m exploring his territory and possibly staying here for the next twenty years.

My life is much more rewarding than I ever pictured, but the good times followed a parade of bizarre and unfortunate ones. Just as I never thought I’d actually make a career out of writing in the first person (or, as my nephew Sawyer says, “whatever I want!”), I never thought I’d have to live in the “rudest city in America” to do it. That’s not an awful trade-off, but the other downsides aren’t so easy to shrug off.

Another thing I never thought I’d experience would be hearing one of my roommates say about our bedroom view, “Did you see all the snow outside this morning? The junkyard looked SO GOOD!”

I never thought I’d have a roommate who would follow that up with, “It’s so sad the snow is all melted. Now our junkyard is back to being ugly.” As if it ever wasn’t.

Similarly, I never thought I’d see the day in which I got into a heated (literally, pun intended) argument with a group of Bostonian firefighters. That day was yesterday. All right, the argument took place in the evening, but the problem began long before that.

Two nights ago, my roommates and I kept waking up covered in sweat. Our rooms were ridiculously warm, so I turned the heat off. The next morning, we complained about the entire apartment feeling like a sauna. Because the heat had been off for six hours at that point, I was curious as to why the place hadn’t yet cooled down. Of course, yesterday was an unusually nice day. It was 50 degrees, so I chalked up the heat to uncharacteristic winter weather. Though sleep deprived and uncomfortable, I pushed the issue out of my mind upon arriving at work.

I was pretty exhausted all day, and it didn’t help that I stayed out with friends until midnight. It wasn’t as if I did anything wild, either. My pal Christy, who is a phenomenal comedian/singer by the way (check out her YouTube page!), was doing stand-up in the east village, so I agreed to attend her performance. She was the best comedian of the night, even one of the moms of another comic said so, and was invited to do another gig as a result of her outstanding show. I was very proud of her and wish my night had ended on that note.

It did not. I got back to the apartment a little after 12. Immediately after stepping into my room, I knew something was seriously wrong. It was nearly 100 degrees inside and the heater had been shut off for more than 12 hours. The heater in the wall was too hot to even touch, so I panicked and assumed the worst. We couldn’t get a hold of the super, so I did what any nervous novice New Yorker would: I called 311, which seems to be the magic number in NYC.

Concerned that my heater was going “out of control” and on the verge of explosion, the lady on the other line phoned the police, who deferred me to the fire department.

Within moments, five firemen showed up to my apartment in full gear, metal rods in hand for God knows what. I directed them to the heater and explained what was going on. Seconds later, they began berating me and groaning.

“Are you KIDDING ME!?” one of them yelled. “WE WERE TOLD THERE WAS A FIRE! THAT’S IT?!?!”

Sorry to break your heart that no one’s home has been destroyed, sir. And people wonder why there is so little respect for servicemen. I appreciate these folks greatly, as two of my best friends are cops, but why hurt someone for taking action and seeking help in the midst of a crisis?

“Whoever told you there was a fire lied because I never once used that word,” I said. “This is really dangerous, though. None of us can breathe in here and we’re worried this is going to start smoking.”

The guys, all of whom had awful Boston accents, went on to whine about wasting their time. Sleep deprived and upset by default because winter is my least favorite season, I was at a loss for words and began choking up on the spot. I hadn’t wanted them to come over, but with no immediate access to building management, there was nobody to contact but 311. I felt awful about wasting the time of these men, yet there was no need for them to speak to me in the disrespectful, mean-spirited manner that they did.

It was only when I began pushing back that one of them offered me some help rather than criticism.

“I don’t think it was stupid of us at all to make a phone call about this!” I said. “We were scared and our skin feels like its about to peel off. You don’t have to put me down for being scared.”

One of the men stayed in my apartment for a minute to share his thoughts and advice, but the rest of them went back to screaming and tearing me apart upon slamming my front door. I know false alarms are frustrating, but it wasn’t my fault that the operator sent them my way. The same thing happened to me in high school when I was rushed to the ER for stomach pains that had me doubled over on the ground. Upon examining my stomach via ultrasound, a female doctor was mad to report that I did not have appendicitis or anything serious — hence, she woke up at 1 a.m. for nothing.

Everything ended up being OK, but the electric company and the super had to come by and rip the heater box out of my wall. It seemed to have been stuck on full blast, which is not only unhealthy but expensive. Thank God I have a huge selection of blankets in my room to choose from because we aren’t going to have a heater for a while.

I’m glad that’s over, but 2012 is definitely my year of laughing about the things I never thought I’d hear myself say or do. Life is funny that way.

Fun at the LL office

About two years ago, my mom joked during one of our mall trips, “Are you sure you’re my daughter?”

She made this comment because I was eager to flee the area upon purchasing exactly what I needed — a sweater — rather than browse several other stores for other articles of clothing. A former beauty pageant participant and Miss West Covina runner-up, my mom couldn’t figure out how she’d raised a daughter who would rather roam a library than go on a shopping spree. We were like Skeeter Phelan and her mom in “The Help.”

"The Help"

For the longest time, I was vocal about my dislike for shopping. I vowed to invest in a personal shopper upon making my first million (as if that was ever a possibility!). But moving to New York changed my perspective on appearance and clothes. I now love planning my outfits for the week, mixing and matching everything I own, and hitting up Union Square for new stuff. I’m not into designers (obviously!), but let’s just say I’ve done a decent job fooling people the past few months.

My biggest change was scrapping pants entirely. I promise you that’s not as scandalous as it sounds. Though it’s cold outside, I rarely don pants. I’m all about skirts and dresses now. You’d be surprised how warm leggings and tights are (they’ll keep you warmer than pants!), and I’ll have them on until May.

I’ll never be a fashion icon, but I’m doing my best to take after my boss Elizabeth. Here’s us at the office today:

Meeting time!

We had a big snow storm over the weekend and a surprise heat wave (fifty degrees!) today, so all the snow has since melted. Even so, here’s a snapshot of Union Square pre-sunshine:

If you’re ever looking to cheer me up, all you need to do is present me with one of these and all will be well. My colleague did so during a stressful moment last week and I instantly felt better:

Beautiful Brooklyn

I’ve been eagerly awaiting snow since Thanksgiving, and to my luck, I woke up to it this morning. If one thing can make Bed-Stuy look charming, it’s snow, so here are some snapshots of my lovely neighborhood. I’m finally ready to share these pictures with you, so take a good look at each one:

I love the heart-shaped outline on the car

Brownstones!

More Brownstones...I'll live in one someday!

At Dough, my favorite Brooklyn doughnut shop.

With all the whining I do about my apartment overlooking a junkyard and abandoned building, I think it’s time to give my readers a glimpse of what that’s actually like.

This is the view from my window. I close my blinds at night to avoid staring into the window and expecting to see the face of that creepy evil woman from the “Woman in Black” trailer. 

Another good thing about snow? It blankets the junk pile I have to see everyday! Nothing could beautify the area surrounding my apartment, but snow makes everything look better. I’ve cropped out the trash pit, but here is the other abandoned building by my residence:

Snow!

Mom, don’t cry! At least you have some visuals of my new home now

The upside of being out of college

A few nights ago, my mom expressed some concern about me. Though 2012 got off to an awesome start with Lauren and Crystal, January just isn’t doing it for me yet. Considering the research behind January blues, this shouldn’t surprise me, but there may be more to it than simply the time of year. My mom picked up on my discontent during one of our phone conversations and said, “You know, you were so happy and relaxed back in college, but I’m not getting the same vibe from you right now.”

There are many reasons for that. In college, I could wear Rainbow flip-flops and Pitaya sundresses every day. The year-round sunshine enabled me to sip Which Wich milkshakes with Kendra and read on the grassy hill any time I desired. Anna and I could write our newspaper columns at Espresso Art, where we’d chat with the nice coffee shop owners and some of the regular attendees.

Daily Wildcatters in Tucson!

Halloween with Lola

Wilma Wildcat

Laughing as Dan prepares to dance to Ke$ha

Daily Wildcat bunch. Jazmine and Luke, never forget Spring 2010!

Last night of senior year!

I don’t have the luxury of being a gluttonous slob anymore, and I miss it. Almost as much as I miss sitting in the sun all day.

That reminds me: My sunshine dreams seem to have returned. I wrote about them extensively last year. When the sun stopped peaking through the sky last winter, I had reoccurring dreams about warmth, sun, light, and heat. I had one of those dreams last night, so I guess it was only fitting to wake up to a pile of snow outside. The snowstorm will continue until late afternoon, and after it settles down, I’m going out with some friends.

I knew about the upcoming snowstorm last night after work. Rather than head home, I made my way down to NYU territory and picked up a burrito at Chipotle. I thought about taking it back to the apartment, but decided to just stay put and enjoy my food while it still remained hot. Because the place was packed, I sat across from two female NYU students at the bar stool area. Though I cracked open my book to read while having dinner, I ended up listening in on the conversation of these two college girls, who appeared to be catching up after a long winter break away from each other. I remember having reunion Chipotle gatherings with Dy, Anna, and Kendra on University Boulevard, only there, we could sit outside underneath a patio umbrella and would inevitably see someone we knew walking by. Tucson was a college town, not New York City, so I’m glad I didn’t come here immediately after high school.

“I saw Liam over break,” the brown-haired girl said.

“Wow, how was that?” asked the blond. “You guys live close to each other, don’t you?”

“Yeah, he stayed the night at the beginning of break, but the was the last I heard from him, so on New Years Eve, I text messaged him ‘Happy New Year!’ He waited until noon the next day to write back, ‘Thanks.’ Thanks?! That’s all I get after four months of sleeping with someone?! So I told him that I seem to be more invested in what we have than he does and that I couldn’t hook up with him anymore.”

“Wow,” replied the blond. “I’m proud of you.”

“Yeah, it had to be done. I deleted his number from my phone too.”

“Well, I’m really proud of you.”

As the brunette spoke of this Liam character, my entire face became bright red. At first, I attributed my change in color to the weather. I’d been walking around in 20 degrees for a half hour and still needed to thaw out, but there was more to it than being cold. I didn’t know this girl, but I was angry for her. I was upset because I went through the same nonsense more than once back in school. Post-graduate guys aren’t exactly princes, but I’ll venture to say that college guys are one of the worst breeds of human to walk this earth. I forgot how infuriating they could be until this poor girl opened her mouth.

Then the other one spoke and added fuel to my fire. The blond’s story was arguably worse:

“I had a long chat with Dylan the other day. I said that we’ve been fooling around for a year and that we need to decide what we are. He said that he would be happy to date me as long as we kept it a secret from his friends. They can’t know about us because he’s embarrassed about me.”

Yup, I know that story too. My face was definitely flaming by that point, but thankfully my brother called moments later to chat, so I had something else to focus on. I may not have been part of these discussions, but they were all too familiar to me. Even though the girls soon transitioned into academic course discussion — which streets their classes would be held, what they’d be taking this semester — I could tell that they were fixated on the men who’d let them down. It’s easy to fall into this trap in college, and that’s why I’m actually kind of relieved to be out of that environment. There are some definite cads in the real world, but they’re not nearly as heartless and irresponsible as undergrad men, who are all too aware that they have four years to do anything they please and not be accountable for any of their actions.

In some ways, I did whatever I wanted back then too. Senior year, I went out five nights a week. I had late night chats with Erik and Dan at Matt’s house. I made a habit of skipping class (on a thirsty Thursdays night out at the bar, my friend Jon convinced me to stay out late because it wouldn’t “hurt me economically” to miss my 8 a.m. math course the following day. He’s now a law student at UVA). I ate blueberry scones every day and milkshakes several times a week. I fell asleep on the grassy hill every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Freshman year, I basically lived in Carolyn’s dorm room, and when we moved into the same apartment senior year, we were rarely apart.

The grassy hill at UofA!

UofA

As much as I miss the freedom of school and the sunshine of Tucson, I don’t miss being an emotional wreck over unworthy suitors. I also know that I, too treated college as a time for me, me, me, so I can’t totally scold a bunch of 21-year-old men for trying to do the same. The only difference was that I wasn’t hurting anyone in my fun, and these guys continuously enjoy themselves at the expense of young women, as made clear at last night’s Chipotle visit.

With that, I am going to leave my apartment for the first time today, trudge through the snow, and pick up a cup of coffee. My caffeine migraine has already kicked in, and my rants only exacerbate headaches, so it’s time to experience true snowfall for the first time in my life. Expect pictures soon.

David Sedaris is coming to Brooklyn…I can die happy now!

Every other blog entry, I complain about living in Brooklyn, but the borough has a lot more to offer than I initially thought. “Me Talk Pretty One Day” author David Sedaris, my favorite writer of all time, will be visiting Brooklyn in early May!

He’s hosting a reading and book signing at the Brooklyn Academy of Music (BAM) on May 8, just in time for summer. This will be the third time we meet, as I saw him in 2010 and 2007 during his book tour visits to the University of Arizona.

The first instance we chatted, I confessed that I hadn’t yet read his books but was coming to his reading to get a signed book for my older sister, a big fan of his.

“Don’t waste your time on my books,” Sedaris said to me. “You have better things to do.”

I considered his advice until he recited a chapter of his memoir, which had me doubled over on the ground in laughter. Really. Inside my sister’s paperback book, Sedaris wrote that I was enchanting, a compliment I’ll never forget. That night, I finished “Me Talk Pretty One Day” in a single sitting and decided that Sedaris had the exact career I wanted for myself: To write books of essays on goofy life experiences.

It seems Sedaris and I are meant to cross paths every two years. I first met him in 2007, so by our second encounter in 2010, I had already become a full-blown fan. Kendra and I were the first people to show up to his reading, and I sat in his chair until he arrived.

At Tucson's David Sedaris book signing in 2010

Waiting for Sedaris!

Kendra in his chair!

We were the first to have our books signed, and in honor of his latest book on talking animals, he said he would draw our animal of choice in our books.

“What kind of animal would you like?”

“A pig,” I said.

“You know what? I struggle with my pig drawing skills, so thank you for this opportunity,” he said.

As he sketched out the swine, I confessed I dreamed of emulating his career and thanked him for showing me exactly which path I wanted to take. This put him in an obvious state of discomfort, but he laughed and warned me of the awkward times that go hand-in-hand with memoir writing and documenting the behavior of others.

I covered this well in my 2010 entry about him, so here’s exactly what he told me back then:

“I wrote about this rude dermatologist and then my friend called him when the book came out. I was like, ‘FUCK! I don’t want him to see what I said about him!’ So you have to be prepared for that.”

And I will be. I hope. Perhaps he can further help me out with this when he gets to New York. I can’t get enough of his essays, so let’s hope he pushes out another book soon. I need more laughing material besides his essays, “You Can’t Kill the Rooster” and “That’s Amore.” Here are some of my favorite excerpts from those works:

Essay about David Sedaris’s crude hillbilly brother, Paul:

“‘The Rooster’ is what Paul calls himself when he’s feeling threatened. Asked how he came up with that name, he says only, ‘Certain motherfuckers think they can fuck with my shit, but you can’t kill the Rooster. You might can fuck him up sometimes, but, bitch, nobody kills the motherfucking Rooster. You know what I’m saying?’

It often seems that my brother and I were raised in two completely different households. He’s eleven years younger than I am, and by the time he reached high school, the rest of us had all left home. When I was young, we weren’t allowed to say ‘shut up,’ but by the time Paul reached his teens, it had become acceptable to shout, ‘Shut your motherfucking mouth.’

My mother was, for the most part, delighted with my brother and regarded him with the bemused curiosity of a brood hen discovering she has hatched a completely different species. ‘I think it was very nice of Paul to give me this vase,’ she once said, arranging a bouquet of wildflowers into the skull-shaped bong my brother had left on the dining-room table. ‘It’s nontraditional, but that’s the Rooster’s way. He’s a free spirit, and we’re lucky to have him.’”

Here’s a funny portion of the essay, “That’s Amore,” which is about Sedaris’s rude New York neighbor Helen:

“My only real constant was Helen, who would watch Hugh leave the building, and then cross the hall to lean on our doorbell. I would wake up, and just as I was belting my robe, the ringing would be replaced by a pounding, frantic and relentless, the way you might rail against a coffin lid if you’d accidentally been buried alive.

‘All right, all right.’

‘What were you, asleep?’ Helen would say as I opened the door. ‘I’ve been up since five.’
‘Well,’ I’d tell her, ‘I didn’t go to bed until three.’

‘I didn’t go to bed until 3.30.’

This was how it was with her: if you got 15 minutes of sleep, she got only 10. If you had a cold, she had a flu. If you’d dodged one bullet, she’d dodged five. Blindfolded.

After my mother’s funeral, I remember her greeting me with, ‘So what? My mother died when I was half your age.’

‘Gosh,’ I said. ‘Think of everything she missed.’

With the exception of my immediate family, no one could provoke me quite like Helen could. One perfectly aimed word, and within an instant I was eight years old and unable to control my temper. I often left her apartment swearing I’d never return. Once I slammed her door so hard, her clock fell off the wall, but still I went back -’crawled back,’ she would say – and apologised. It seemed wrong to yell at a grandmother, but more than that I found that I missed her, or at least missed someone I could so easily drop in on. The beauty of Helen was that she was always there, practically begging to be disturbed. Was that a friend, or had I chosen the wrong word? What was the name for this thing we had?

Helen fell in the tub and sprained her wrist. While she was laid up, I went to the store for her. Hugh took down her trash and delivered her mail. Joe, a widower now, offered to help as well. ‘Anything that needs doing around the house, you just let me know,’ he told her.

He meant that he’d change lightbulbs or run a mop across her floor, but Helen took it the wrong way and threw him out of her apartment. ‘He wants to see my twat,’ she told me.”

Nerdtastic! I miss those sandals

Thanks CBS for making it hard for others to watch ’2 Broke Girls’

As you may know from some of my recent posts, I’ve become quite the sitcom addict since deciding my ultimate goal is to pen TV comedies. Unfortunately, I don’t personally own a television (I’ll get on that when I move into Manhattan), so I inevitably see my favorite programs at least a day late. The Internet and season DVDs have made it possible for me to keep up with good shows sans television, but CBS is now making it harder for me and many others to stay updated on what’s going on in “2 Broke Girls.”

CBS.com used to upload full episodes of “2 Broke Girls” after each airing, so imagine the disappointment of loyal viewers when the network began substituting entire episodes for clips. I know I can be a cheapskate about TVs, but I’m not the only one who was let down by this change. Here are some complaints people wrote on the show’s Facebook fanpage:

“Some people work nights and cant watch your show…so we watch it online and even help in voting for you for People’s Choice Awards so what do we get in return…YOU NOT ALLOWING US TO WATCH ONLINE! Typical CBS so lets try and fix this so I can continue to watch a show I love and you can be the #1 network that I love!”

“Why can’t I watch full episodes? I’m sad”

“Where did the full episode go? Come on CBS..you did the same thing with Mike and Molly last year. I’m ready to give up on you.”

“You mean to tell me they are not doing full episodes any more? What gives? I know they have never done The Mentalist; now, 2 broke girls? I guess CBS doesn’t want us watching their shows.”

“Here we go again CBS shows about 1/2 season of something in full episodes then after everyone begins to like it suddenly there is only clips. This won’t make me go out and buy a television service. In fact it makes me determine never to watch a new show from you again.”

“Don’t be like this CBS, Let us watch full episodes online! Some day soon people will only stream shows, no more expensive cable. Get with the program make your stuff available here so people don’t go to a bootleg site.”

Many of these folks put it better than I ever could. I know CBS has to profit from “2 Broke Girls,” so why not sell the episodes on iTunes? With the decrease in TV set ownership in U.S. households, CBS can’t expect all its viewers to have boob tubes. Help us out here, CBS.

Until I can live in an apartment that can actually support a TV set (the cable in my bedroom is faulty and we have no living room, gotta love Bed Stuy rent!), I have no choice but to stop watching “2 Broke Girls.” It’s kind of a letdown. Where else am I going to find a sitcom about two broke twenty-something women residing and working in a sketchy area of Brooklyn?

When I first relocated to New York in October, “2 Broke Girls” was the only thing keeping me sane because it reminded me that I wasn’t the only young lady living in one of the most dangerous neighborhoods of Brooklyn to save on apartment expenses. It even helped me laugh off my nerves and eventually feel comfortable and safe in Bed Stuy (knock on wood!). Thanks for taking that away from me, CBS. At least it was fun while it lasted.

Blue Monday: How are you spending the saddest day of the year?

Because I’ve been dreading January since mid-August (when my buddy Nikki moved back to the east coast and inadvertently gave me the reality check that the days of summer are numbered), it came as absolutely no surprise to me to learn that today is considered the most depressing day of the year. I’ve been bummed about winter for a long time, but the wave of sadness hit me most the day after Christmas, and I wound up publishing this piece as a result.

Research finds that January is hard on a lot of people. Christmas bills continue to stream into our mailboxes, leaving the house requires immense bundling up, you can’t help but look frumpy, and work expectations are intense again. Worst of all, vacations are out of the question.

Blue Monday doesn’t have to be sad, though. I was actually pretty content today, as my office was closed and I didn’t have to work. For the first time in three weeks, I had a valuable gym visit. I went into Forever 21 without purchasing anything, and considering my newfound love for shopping, my willpower surprised me. I have a full week of social and work activities ahead, so I’m staying busy regardless of the 16 degree weather, which is less noticeable here than in D.C. because New York gets a lot of sunlight. Though I rarely feel the warmth of the sun here, the light does the trick.

Dr. Alan Manevitz, a clinical psychiatrist in New York, told the Daily News that only 6 percent of New Yorkers suffer from Seasonal Affective Disorder, of which I was definitely a victim last winter, so I think I’m fine here. The key to dealing with chilly weather is piling on the layers and remembering to wear a hat, pair of gloves, and scarf for most outings.

So all was well today, in part because I came home to these:

As I’ve admitted before, holiday movies push me through winter because I can pretend all the biting cold weather will be leading up to Christmas Day, yummy food, adventures with friends, and visits with family members. Other than Valentine’s Day, there aren’t any fun celebrations in the near future to plan for, so coasting off Christmas is my best option here.

I’ve done a decent job going out on the weekends, but it would be so much easier if I were closer in location to my friends or had really strong friendships here. My network may be growing, but as I told Nikki in October, I’m without a Nikki in New York. As my dad would say, I’m without a wingman. It took me nearly a year of living in D.C. to acquire one there, so I more than anyone else recognize that it takes time to finds friends whom you can call at any moment and hang out with on a whim. There’s a reason why Rachel Bertsche’s book, “MWF Seeking BFF: My Yearlong Search for a New Best Friend” has garnered nationwide attention: Picking up female friends ain’t easy.

Women don’t live in Jason Segel and Paul Rudd’s “I Love You Man” world. There’s a lot more honesty and security and less competition going on between these characters than you’ll often find among females.

When push comes to shove, it’s just best that I recognize quality relationships do not blossom overnight, and because every social gathering or bar reunion turns into a bitchfest, there’s little to connect over besides shared complaints and concerns. Hopefully when summer approaches, this won’t be the case.

‘Modern Family’ scores the Golden Globe for TV comedy

Modern Family

Since college, I’ve made it a point not to keep up with television. I’ve never personally owned a TV and used to chastise those talked about popular shows. Then I had to relocate to New York and spent a lot of time alone. During the moving process, my D.C. roommate hung out with her family a great deal, so I found myself losing my mind in our empty apartment for much of that transition. When I first got to New York, I sublet an adorable studio in the west village for three weeks. Though I enjoyed my personal space for a day or two, I become lonely pretty quickly.

To feel a little more comfortable with all the alone time, I decided to keep the TV on every hour I was home. I watched “Modern Family” and was immediately hooked. Sofia Vergara’s emotionally driven character made me laugh, Phil Dunphy’s failed attempts at being smooth reminded me of some of my uncles, Ed O’Neill’s curmudgeon personality and constant use of the phrase “Oh, Hell” brought back childhood memories of my own no-nonsense dad giving others a piece of his mind, and Alex’s bitter and sometimes vicious ways were reminiscent of my pre-teen insecurities.

A friend once criticized “Modern Family” for displaying a dysfunctional bunch. She complained that we need more programs about stable families. I know I’m not the first to say this, but many of today’s families are unusual in some way. The great thing about “Modern Family” is that it always ends on a nurturing note. Everyone cares about each other no matter what, and the sitcom goes to show that many different types of families can be strong. A family is not in trouble simply because it doesn’t fit the “Brady Bunch” mold.

With that, I’m glad that “Modern Family” landed the Golden Globe for best TV series. It sends the message that you don’t have to be the stereotypical white picket fence family to be happy. On the final episode of season one, Ed O’Neill’s character says:

“Back in ’68…I had this mental picture of the family that if I was lucky enough, one day I would end up with. Perfect wife, perfect kids. Guess what? I didn’t get any of that. Wound up with this sorry bunch. And I’m thankful for that everyday…Well, most days.”

Today in terrible fortune cookies…

Dear Lilli and Loo Asian Cuisine: Your food is phenomenal, but your fortune cookie fortunes could really use some editing and a dash of positivity. Yesterday, my friend finished her meal and cracked open her tasteless cookie only to find this foreboding message:

Mine said something along the lines of, “Did you know the busiest people also have the most amount of time?” Correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe everyone is allotted 24 hours a day to fulfill their tasks and get things done, so that fortune was equally unhelpful.

Have you ever received any less than inspirational fortune cookie notes, which cannot be good for business? Do tell!