Return of the Bookworm

I forgot how much I love to read.

When I was younger, I remember being such a bookworm.  If I wasn’t reading a book, I was attempting to write one.  During summer vacations, mom would take us to the library to get our summer reading books, and I’d always take out a few extra.  I remember one summer, the West Boylston library offered raffle tickets to kids for every book they read.  The walls were plastered with the great prizes like a Skip It and a bunch of other crap I’m sure my parents didn’t want hanging around.  I read so much that summer, I think I earned around 20 raffle tickets (we all know how easy it is to bribe me with things).   I wanted to win one of those damn prizes so badly– but I didn’t win a single thing! (Tiny disclosure: I do remember a few books being awful, so after a few chapters I skipped to the last one and read it until the end so I knew what happened.  Seeing I cheated a couple times, it’s probably best I didn’t win. You know, cheater cheater never beater.. or however it goes).

Although I didn’t get the Skip It, I was still a winner because the sneaky promotion only fed my love of reading. Sadly, somewhere along the line, my passion for the pages faded.  High school book reports became chores and I began to favor journalism over literature, which carried over into college. Nothing turned me off more from reading than my British Literature class and my three-hour long Shakespeare lecture. I hated it so much I tried to drop my English major senior year, but my advisor wouldn’t let me (Thank you, Fern Johnson!).  Once I graduated, I pretty much read nothing but magazines, save for the occasional book or two (and whatever was forced upon me in grad school).

Until yesterday.  I decided that after four years in this city, it was time to get a Chicago Public Library card. The first time I tried getting one, they asked me for a photo ID, some mail that was recently postmarked and a DNA sample. Ok, not a DNA sample but I was scarred by the experience and never went back.

Until yesterday.  It was much more pleasant experience this time. Maybe it was because I went to one of the branches in my neighborhood instead of the enormous, albeit gorgeous, building downtown with the gargoyles on top of it.  Within five minutes of arriving, I showed my proof of residency, signed a paper and was allowed access to the books upstairs.

It wasn’t until then that I realized I hadn’t been in a library for so long, I forgot how to use it!  I highly doubted that they had a card catalog, so I just walked up and down the aisles of books, grateful that it was well-lit with natural sunlight and didn’t smell like an old tomb.

After grabbing a couple books, I headed to get checked out.  I waited to get my card stamped with the due date, but everything is electronic now.  They scanned my books and printed me a receipt like I had just bought jeans and a t-shirt at the Gap.

I walked out the door proud because I had finally gotten my green (library) card.  And I kind of felt a little smarter, too.  As soon as I got home, I curled up on my big chair and started reading one of the books – and I didn’t put it down until way past my bedtime.  Although the book I was reading isn’t exactly War and Peace, it felt great to read instead of watch re-runs of Chopped and Castle like I usually do after work.

At this rate, I’ll be back to the library this weekend to get some more books.  Suggestions for good books are more than welcome!

Four Years ... Let's Celebrate with Pepto!

I’ve been in Chicago for four years this week.  Crazy how time flies.

I would have done something fun like toasted with some champagne except I spent the afternoon in the doctor’s office and was under strict orders not to drink alcohol or coffee.  No, I’m not pregnant – that would actually be impossible – I've just got severe acid reflux.

Monday night I woke up with severe chest pains and an intense burning in my throat.  I honestly thought I was having a heart attack. If there was pain in my left arm, I would have gone straight to the hospital.  After popping Pepto and three hours of wanting to cry, I was able to catch a few hours of sleep, sitting upright.  It’s hard to describe the feeling (I think I blocked it out), but it was one of the worst nights ever.  I’ve been lucky enough to never have acid reflux or heartburn before, so this sudden, intense pain was alarming.

I called the doctor as soon as they opened and made an appointment for that afternoon. I was still having the chest pressure, but not nearly as bad.  I started feeling a little stupid and that I might be overreacting about something lots of people get, but then I remember reading in my magazines that it’s better to be safe than sorry.  I didn’t want to be one of those girls on the pages who said she ignored the warning signs of a heart attack because it was only “acid reflux.” (The doctor told me later that severe acid reflux and a heart attack are often confused for each other, so I didn’t feel as dumb).

My “strong heart” passed all of her tests with flying colors, and I was sent away with a prescription.  I also left with an incredible peace of mind that was worth the entire visit. The pain has gone away, but the memory of how scary that episode was hasn’t.  Although I ended up with “just acid reflux,” I’m glad I followed up with a doctor so the next time it happens, I won’t panic. I’m just a 30-year-old woman with back pain, high cholesterol, dairy and corn intolerances and now acid reflux.  

Maybe on my fourth anniversary here, my heart was trying to send me a message -- life's short, where and what do you really want to be doing with your life? Guess that's something I have to think about, just not stress about, you know, so the acid doesn't come back to remind me to relax. 

To be continued ... 

I Got it from my Mamma

I always joke that as the middle child, I am a mix of my parents’ bad qualities – their high cholesterol (times two!); my dad’s impatience and competitiveness and sometimes unsportsmanlike conduct; as well as his fair Irish, burn-prone skin; my mom’s love for chocolate, dessert and anything containing a carb; her loud Italian family side; and her fine, thin hair.

But some of the best parts of me are also from them— my unique greenish eyes are a mix of my dad’s crystal blue peepers and my mom’s stubborn brown-eyed genes.  I also inherited my dad’s quick wit and love of sports and my mom’s ability to cook a delicious meal without following a recipe.

Although my dad used to work in a restaurant, I have yet to witness him cook anything more gourmet than hot dogs or microwaveable chicken wings (aside from his wicked grilling skills – which I did NOT inherit). So, I credit my mom and her Italian heritage for knowing my way around the kitchen.

Last week, I created some pretty sweet dinners using some Pinterest recipes as a base, and my inherited improvised cooking skills to make them my own.  The fact that I can’t eat dairy products also forces me to be creative when cooking – until you can’t have dairy, you have no idea how many things it is really in! 

Here are a few I'm pretty proud of: 

1. Homemade pulled pork in the crock pot and coleslaw from scratch

Last Thursday I took a mental health day and made the most of it by making some homemade pulled pork in the crock pot.  Most recipes call for a rump roast or a loin, but I only had boneless pork chops. I used this recipe, but improvised. I used four pieces of pork, half an onion and probably a quarter of a bottle of a sweet BBQ sauce. After seven hours, I pulled the pork and then let it cook in the juices for another hour. Definitely worth the wait!  I also used this recipe for coleslaw, which tastes so yummy! I slapped them both between two pieces of bread and had the best sandwich ever. 

2. Eggplant bake 

I had an eggplant to use up before it went bad so I decided to make an eggplant bake, without the cheese.  I found this recipe on Pinterest, but changed it around. I subtracted the cheese, and replaced it with a few sprinkles of grated Parmesan cheese in between the layers. Instead of following the directions of dipping it in flour and then egg, I dipped it in egg and then crushed up croutons and breadcrumbs mixed (I got that idea genius from my mother!) and then baked them until golden brown. I then layered them in a pie plate with homemade sauce mixture using tomato puree (the red pepper flakes really add an awesome kick so don't skip them). I didn't have all of the spices so I improvised a little (without measuring.. whoops).  It might be my new favorite way to make sauce. I don't know if it was this new sauce or the fact that it was missing cheese, but it really tasted like a nice, light eggplant dinner. I didn't take a picture of this, but it looked just as good as it tasted!

3.  Pizza with peppers and vegan cheese

I have been craving pizza so bad lately I couldn't take it anymore. I walked to the store, got the Pillsbury pizza crust and had at it. I cut up a green pepper and onion I needed to use before it went bad (I sauteed them in a pan with a bit of oil beforehand, another idea from my mom!), some leftover jar sauce and covered it with vegan cheese from Trader Joe's (soy cheese is gross and vegan cheese actually has the consistency of real cheese, but it's a little too liquid-y when it melts, but beggars can't be choosers). It did the trick.

4. Double chocolate chip cookies from scratch

Now this one I am especially proud of-- I've never made cookies from scratch on my own until last night when I whipped these up while watching my favorite TV show.  MY friend asked me to bring a dessert over to our "Bachelorette" finale party tonight and I wouldn't be caught dead bringing a store-bought dessert (thanks again, mom). I made half a batch and managed to make them without a hand mixer. I used a masher and some elbow grease to combine the butter and sugar and the rest of the ingredients. Of course, I added extra chocolate chips and rolled the dough balls in Christmas sprinkles (because I didn't have other ones and wanted to use these up). I made them smaller than recommended and cooked them for 16 minutes.  I managed to burn myself on the over, but the cookies tasted so good they were worth it! If you make these, don't be alarmed by how sticky they are. I baked them on a cookie sheet with some cooking spray (no parchment paper in the house) and they did not stick!

Hope I made you drool! I didn't write this post to brag, I just wanted to share some awesome recipes that are pretty easy to make and totally worth the investment! And if you know my parents, you know I've inherited their ability to pinpoint a good value :)

Going Postal

Dear US Postal Service,

I moved nearly a month ago and haven’t been receiving any forwarded mail.  Neither has my new roommate. We think you might be holding it hostage.  In my attempt to investigate the issue, I have come to realize why people favor online bill pay, Kindles/iPads and FedEx over the USPS.  Here are ten reasons why I am not surprised you are bankrupt or close to it:  

1. I have been to and/or called five different USPS numbers and locations in order to track down where my mail might be.  Everyone points me to someone else.

2. Several of you keep telling me it takes at least three weeks to start getting forwarded mail. Well, it’s been three weeks. 

3. And why the hell does it take three weeks anyway? I moved not even two miles away!

4.  I had to pay $1 to change my address on your website. 

5. I’m still waiting for the Easter card my mom mailed me in 2010. You’re the reason she no longer sends me things in the mail because she’s afraid you’ll lose them.

6. The person who answered your customer service line yesterday sounded drunk or like he just woke up and was sitting on his couch eating donuts or playing video games. I’d at least expect the person who answers the USPS 1-800 number to sound like they’re not distracted by something else when I ask my questions.

7. When I tried to call my old post office – which closes at 5 p.m. probably on purpose so normal people can’t go in and ask questions – the phone was off the hook and giving me a busy signal at 4:51 p.m. yesterday.

8. The post office I ultimately needed to call is not even listed on your website.  I got the number from a friendly (gasp) USPS worker at a different USPS location.  

9.  I know I’m just one of many millions of people that receive mail every day, but my mail is important and I would appreciate a little compassion.

10.   All I really want is new issue of Runner’s World (it’s the Boston Marathon memorial issue). If you can deliver this to me before June 16 so I can read it on the plane to Lisbon, I will reconsider this list.

Benjamin Franklin would be so disappointed.  Maybe it’s time to enlist Miss Cleo’s help to find my mail.   

Movin' on up and out

A couple weeks ago, I changed area codes.  I said good-bye to the only place I’ve ever called “home” in Chicago and moved to greener pastures with lots of rainbows.  Really, there are rainbows everywhere.  I moved to Boystown.

It was a very surreal period, packing up my belongings and getting ready to move. Mostly because I hadn’t had to do that in nearly four years, but I also always thought the next time I put my life into cardboard boxes, I would be moving back to Boston. This apartment was my longest residential relationship since college (I moves eight times in the four years after graduation and before moving to Chicago).

It’s crazy how time flies.  When I boarded my United flight that August night in 2009, I thought I’d be coming back a year later (even though two days later I was crying to come home). Ever since deciding to stick it out in Chicago, I’ve always played my life by ear, sometimes month by month (I guess that came with the territory being a poor grad student and then an intern for more than a year counting on false promises of a job). 

I’ve never really settled here or really put down roots deep enough that couldn’t be dug out with a month’s notice. I still don’t and won’t because I know I’ll end up back on the East Coast someday.  That’s not an if but a matter of when.  As I start to settle into my new place, I wonder if it is time to let go and just plan my life as if I will be here for a while – or at least for the next year. 

As I packed up the last of my stuff and taped the box shut, I stood in the middle of my empty room and closed my eyes (OK, I didn’t really but it sounds more dramatic).  I remember how bright and white the freshly-painted walls were when I moved in as my mom helped me stack the U-Haul boxes in the closet to get them out of the way as I unpacked – the same boxes I was stacking in the living room for the movers. 

When I bade farewell to my room, my voice echoed the same way it did when I said hello all those years ago.  We had some good, cramped times me and that room.

While it's weird to say goodbye and start over in a new place, I'm really looking forward to my in-unit washer and dryer and walk-in closet. 

I'm movin' on up. 

Just Keep Swimming...

Now that I’m officially 30, I found that it is high time I start acting my age.  Which is why I decided to do a water aerobics class at the gym on Saturday.  

Kidding.

I did the class because my injured back continues to permit me from doing any other exercise. This would be my first real workout activity other than walking on the treadmill in more than a month, which I celebrated as a victory.

I brought a friend with me as a metaphorical flotation device—maybe it’s a girl thing, or a me thing, but when I try something new and unfamiliar for the first time, I like to have someone there with me so we can support each other, a.k.a. laugh at each other or curse the instructor under our breaths.

Now, water aerobics classes have a certain stigma attached to them — they’re filled with old people, they’re not that hard, etc.  Well, I am here to tell you that everything you’ve heard about water aerobics is true:  

·        *       I am pretty sure we were the youngest in the class… by at least 30 years.

·        *       It was filled with older women (one woman was serious… she had hand wraps) and a few hairy old men.

·         *      Every time the instructor announced the next exercise, a choir of groans echoed throughout the pool.  The groans got even louder when she announced that we’d be doing said exercise for 45 seconds… apparently that is WAY too long. When we had to do one for a minute, some woman exclaimed that this was the longest minute of her life.

·        *      At one point the instructor got so irritated that people weren’t following the proper instructions or taking the class seriously, she slammed a water noodle on the floor and yelled at us.  Honestly, if I was the instructor I’d be annoyed, too.  The old ladies seemed to use this time as a social hour in the pool rather than a serious workout.  

The class wasn’t too bad until we had to do an exercise where, while straddling our water noodles, we had to grab on to the back of someone else’s noodle and form a chain.  Not only did I feel like a 10-year-old, but I was forced to partner with one of the hairy old men – let’s just say I grabbed back hair before his noodle.  That is the moment I mentally checked out of class and vowed never to return.  

To be fair, I didn’t put in 100 percent effort because I didn’t exactly get permission from my physical therapist to do this class. So maybe it is a really good workout, I just didn't get to experience it this time.  I’ve also never really been a fan of over-chlorinated pools filled with strangers. 

And most importantly, I really miss running. I think I’ll stick to walking on the treadmill – my water aerobics class days are over.  At least for the next couple decades. 

Getting Pants'ed

Most people wouldn't be psyched about fitting into their sister’s pregnancy pants.  Those people are not me.

When I was home last weekend, my sister approached me timidly and said: “I mean this in the nicest possible way, but I have some dress pants I wore when I was pregnant that don’t fit me anymore." She has shrunk since giving birth and asked if I wanted to try them on.

I said yes, because her pregnancy pants are a size 8.  I haven’t spent much time in size 8 pants since middle school, and even with my recent weight loss I’m still hovering on average around a size 10.  My size 12 dress pants have gotten a little baggy and saggy, so I didn't want to pass up the chance for free pants and the opportunity to skip the entire “shopping for dress pants” process, which is almost as bad as the “shopping for bathing suits” nightmare thanks to fluorescent lighting in three-way mirrors.

I tried them on — THEY FIT!  All four pairs fit like a glove, OK maybe a glove that’s a little tight, but I saw it as something to work towards. A slight muffin top reminds me to eat a salad instead of pasta or French fries for lunch, whereas the extra room in baggy pants seems to grant permission for me to eat with a little leeway.  

The funny thing is that one of the pairs of pants my sister gave me was the exact same pair I already own, but two sizes smaller than the ones hanging in my closet.  When I got back to my apartment and unpacked from my trip, the first thing I did was throw the older, larger pants in the Goodwill pile. It was a great feeling.   

Even better (for my waistline) -- my bags were so packed with new pants that I couldn't fit my cannoli in my carry on! Maybe I'll start aiming for my sister's pre-pregnancy pants next.