I have been working out more over the past few months in an attempt to get back to the shape I never quite appreciated in my youthful twenties. After having mixed in cardio weight training and full body workouts with the occassional run, I have yet to see results. I am eating more, yes, and probably look a little more put together than I have, but still not pleased that most of my wardrobe sits on the bench waiting to get called into the game. It's a dangerous game, though, and I am still too afraid to take the gamble on wearing a snugger skirt or pair of pants for fear they might split during the workday. And if they don't split, they'd surely leave imprints of the button, brand name and all, on my skin.
Instead, I'm reluctantly trying to modify my eating habits (no more hot dogs for breakfast!) in the hopes that I can salvage my attire. Upon researching some healthier alternatives to comfortable recipes, I came across this healthy, non-fried version of eggplant parmesan (one of my all-time favorite dishes!). It looked rather bland to me, but I'm sure with the right amount of spice, it would be bearable.
EASY BAKED LOW CALORIE EGGPLANT PARMESAN
1 eggplant
diced canned tomatoes in water
extra virgin olive oil
low fat mozzarella cheese
grated or diced garlic
salt and pepper
Add garlic, oil, and salt and pepper to the diced tomatoes. Slice eggplant into 1/4 inch slices, or as thinly as possible. Place first layer of eggplant into baking dish. Place a layer of diced tomatoes and top with sliced mozzarella cheese. Continue layering eggplant, sauce and mozzarella until you have 2 or 3 layers. Bake in a 350°F oven for 30-40min or until cooked through. Top with grated Parmesan cheese, if desired.
And that's when I thought I had found the man of my dreams. Scrolling to the end of the recipe I found one lone comment.
Reviews and Comments (1)
Apr 7, 10:51 PM
Carl (in California) said:
Mmmm good! Embellished mine with pepperoni.
Be still my heart! And waistline! Then I snapped out of my pepperoni haze. I wanted to slap him. Of course it's good when you add bad food to it! Bad, Carl! BAD! I'm mad at him for throwing temptation my way.
Hey, Carl, you should try this salad I absolutely love--mixed greens, tomatoes, bell peppers, light honey mustard dressing, and a sliced hard-boiled egg. Oh, and for an extra punch, don't forget to top the salad with chicken wings, a fried sausage, and a sprinkling of nachos. Just thought I'd embellish it a little.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Capture of the ever-elusive rhubarb
My cobbler-making obsession is still alive and well. Last weekend, Sheri and I embarked on a small errand that turned into a rewarding journey. It was time to branch out from the easy, yet tasty, peach blueberry cobbler effort and on to something a little more challenging. From the list of cobbler must-makes, we chose the strawberry rhubarb one. After selecting a marvelous recipe from Emeril, I offered to pick up the fruit since Sheri was going to supply everything else. Easy enough, right? All I needed was strawberries, rhubarb, and an orange. At the Safeway in Silver Spring, I succeeded in finding strawberries and an orange, but wasn't sure they had rhubarb. I had never purchased rhubarb before and wasn't sure if it was sold with the leaves on the stalks. After I grabbed some rainbow swiss chard, thinking it was rhubarb, I decided to ask the produce man whether it was indeed rhubarb. Nope. I had read on Wikipedia that the leaves were poisonous, so it would make sense that rhubarb was just sold in stalk form. Alas. On to Whole Foods. No rhubarb. Talk about dissappointment.
After going home empty handed, I broke the news to Sheri that rhubarb was not to be found in my neighborhood. The next day at work (Friday) I decided to call some stores near her house before wasting the time traveling in traffic for what could turn out to be a fruitless effort. (I hate puns, but this one's intended). At last, the Wegman's in Fairax said they carried it! We drove straight there after work from DC hoping that traffic on 66 would have mercy on us. It did. And when we got to Wegman's, I bee-lined for the last remaining stalks of rhubarb. Albeit it was a bit shriveled and a tad slimy on some ends, it was pure beauty in my eyes. After I finished rubber necking at the glory that is Wegman's, we headed back to Sheri's place to make us some cobbler.
The rhubarb was interesting. I had never tasted or smelled it before. It sliced up just like celery, and was equally as pungent. I didn't try any raw since I had heard it was quite sour. The recipe called for orange zest, Grand Marnier, sugar, and equal parts strawberry and rhubarb. The crumble portion was the ole faithful combo of flour, white and brown sugar, a pinch of salt and some cinnamon.Once everything was ready to go, we placed it in the oven and began the waiting game. The aromas wafting from the oven midway through the baking process were unreal. And the taste of the warm cobbler with a cold dollop of creamy vanilla ice cream was unbelievably satisfying. The sourness of the rhubarb was the perfect complement to the succulently sweet strawberries.
As they say, a picture speaks a thousand words, so what follows is my pictorial tale of the strawberry rhubarb cobbler extraordinaire.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
The secret life of socks, tupperware lids, and hair bands
For as long as I can remember, I have always been intrigued by the mysterious disappearances of life's seemingly unessential items. They only become essential with their unexplained absence. Yes...I'm talking about socks, tupperware lids and hair bands.
Socks aren't essential for everyday living. Especially during the summer months. Tupperware lids are only useful when transporting leftovers comes into play. Hair bands usually only affect women, or men with longer hair. But when there's a shortage or missing half of these items, it becomes a problem. A big problem.
Despite the countless number of times that I have laundered my clothes, it still irks me beyond belief when it's all said and done and I have a basket full of orphaned socks. It doesn't matter when it's a plain white sock. But you can't wear an orphaned argyle sock! You can't mix and match black, blue or grey ones either. The question that comes to mind is, where did they all go? Did they get sucked into the black abyss of the washing machine holes? Did they get swallowed into the dryer vent? Or did they simply just walk away? Sometimes they can be sneaky and slither down the space between the machines and the wall. Maybe it's time to install a video camera in the basement.
Earlier this year, I cut down significantly on the number of socks sacrificed during the laundry ritual by not washing them with sheets and towels. Many a time I would change the sheets on my bed to find an orphan sock hanging out in the fitted sheet. No more. Once, I wore a pair of jeans all day before noticing a suspicious bulge behind my knee cap. The cold sweats started and my mind raced, wondering the reasons why my knee was so swollen and unsightly. A quick trip to the bathroom to check revealed a balled up red Christmas sock stuck in the leg of my jeans. Phew.
Just this morning, I was searching for some tupperware in which to transport my lunch only to discover that we had a plethora of containers with no lids. And, the lids we had did not fit on any of the existing containers. How? Explanation, please! When did these guys get legs? Did they melt during the dishwashing phase? It makes me angry just thinking about it. What use do I have for a tupperware container with no lid? How am I going to transport my leftover soup in a topless container? What do I do now, throw out the existing containers and buy a whole new set? Please tell me they sell just plain lids somewhere.
Now on to my favorite disappearing act. It's my favorite because it bothers me the least and is the cheapest to replace. Hair bands. I think these are the easiest to displace because one can remove hair bands in an infinite amount of places. The shower, the bathroom, the bedroom, the living room, other peoples houses, offices, metro trains, cars...you get the idea. But why am I so careless that I lose them every week? As I type right now, I am staring at a rogue hair band on my desk, wondering how it got there since I have my hair tied up at the moment in a different one. Maybe it's just reserves for when I lose the one I have on now. Sigh.
If someone could solve the life mystery of the disappearing socks and tupperware lids, I might sleep better at night. I know there must be other items I am forgetting that seem to walk away just as easily. Writing utensils are surely one of them. But those are not as exciting to talk about because they're in abundance everywhere. What person at work has a pen holder with one lone pen sitting in it? Prove me wrong and I'll loan you one of my 30.
I remember back a year or so ago, the crazy lady from my lobbying job asked me to order pens for each employee and label them so that we wouldn't run out of pens so quickly. She blamed all of us for losing track of our pens. One day I was in her office looking for a highlighter and as I opened her desk drawer, I was blinded by the lights of heaven. I had never seen so many pens, of so many different colors, sizes, lengths, and designs in my life. Pen nabber found. Too bad she was too senile to realize she was the hoarder.
Just like that hidden oasis of pens, sometimes I tell myself that there must be a secret spot in my house where a crush of estranged hair bands, orphaned socks, and lonely lids all hang out. They drink to their new-found freedom. They celebrate the severing of ties with their other half. They laugh at the anguish they continue to cause me.
But while that remains a pigment of my imagination, I need to face reality and come up with a solution. There's got to be an answer to these vexing questions. I wouldn't care as much if I would just find a sock or lid every once in a while. I never do. They've got to be somewhere. I'm thinking I should write to the companies where I buy socks and ask them to start selling them in threes. That way, you lose one, there's no orphan and everyone's happy. You lose two, well then we can hope that two got lost together and will be soon found together. If you lose all three, well then you've got a problem. Or, perhaps we can just blame it all on that monster living in the laundry room. He/She needs to be captured and punished for the mental duress caused.
Socks aren't essential for everyday living. Especially during the summer months. Tupperware lids are only useful when transporting leftovers comes into play. Hair bands usually only affect women, or men with longer hair. But when there's a shortage or missing half of these items, it becomes a problem. A big problem.
Despite the countless number of times that I have laundered my clothes, it still irks me beyond belief when it's all said and done and I have a basket full of orphaned socks. It doesn't matter when it's a plain white sock. But you can't wear an orphaned argyle sock! You can't mix and match black, blue or grey ones either. The question that comes to mind is, where did they all go? Did they get sucked into the black abyss of the washing machine holes? Did they get swallowed into the dryer vent? Or did they simply just walk away? Sometimes they can be sneaky and slither down the space between the machines and the wall. Maybe it's time to install a video camera in the basement.
Earlier this year, I cut down significantly on the number of socks sacrificed during the laundry ritual by not washing them with sheets and towels. Many a time I would change the sheets on my bed to find an orphan sock hanging out in the fitted sheet. No more. Once, I wore a pair of jeans all day before noticing a suspicious bulge behind my knee cap. The cold sweats started and my mind raced, wondering the reasons why my knee was so swollen and unsightly. A quick trip to the bathroom to check revealed a balled up red Christmas sock stuck in the leg of my jeans. Phew.
Just this morning, I was searching for some tupperware in which to transport my lunch only to discover that we had a plethora of containers with no lids. And, the lids we had did not fit on any of the existing containers. How? Explanation, please! When did these guys get legs? Did they melt during the dishwashing phase? It makes me angry just thinking about it. What use do I have for a tupperware container with no lid? How am I going to transport my leftover soup in a topless container? What do I do now, throw out the existing containers and buy a whole new set? Please tell me they sell just plain lids somewhere.
Now on to my favorite disappearing act. It's my favorite because it bothers me the least and is the cheapest to replace. Hair bands. I think these are the easiest to displace because one can remove hair bands in an infinite amount of places. The shower, the bathroom, the bedroom, the living room, other peoples houses, offices, metro trains, cars...you get the idea. But why am I so careless that I lose them every week? As I type right now, I am staring at a rogue hair band on my desk, wondering how it got there since I have my hair tied up at the moment in a different one. Maybe it's just reserves for when I lose the one I have on now. Sigh.
If someone could solve the life mystery of the disappearing socks and tupperware lids, I might sleep better at night. I know there must be other items I am forgetting that seem to walk away just as easily. Writing utensils are surely one of them. But those are not as exciting to talk about because they're in abundance everywhere. What person at work has a pen holder with one lone pen sitting in it? Prove me wrong and I'll loan you one of my 30.
I remember back a year or so ago, the crazy lady from my lobbying job asked me to order pens for each employee and label them so that we wouldn't run out of pens so quickly. She blamed all of us for losing track of our pens. One day I was in her office looking for a highlighter and as I opened her desk drawer, I was blinded by the lights of heaven. I had never seen so many pens, of so many different colors, sizes, lengths, and designs in my life. Pen nabber found. Too bad she was too senile to realize she was the hoarder.
Just like that hidden oasis of pens, sometimes I tell myself that there must be a secret spot in my house where a crush of estranged hair bands, orphaned socks, and lonely lids all hang out. They drink to their new-found freedom. They celebrate the severing of ties with their other half. They laugh at the anguish they continue to cause me.
But while that remains a pigment of my imagination, I need to face reality and come up with a solution. There's got to be an answer to these vexing questions. I wouldn't care as much if I would just find a sock or lid every once in a while. I never do. They've got to be somewhere. I'm thinking I should write to the companies where I buy socks and ask them to start selling them in threes. That way, you lose one, there's no orphan and everyone's happy. You lose two, well then we can hope that two got lost together and will be soon found together. If you lose all three, well then you've got a problem. Or, perhaps we can just blame it all on that monster living in the laundry room. He/She needs to be captured and punished for the mental duress caused.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Scratch That
Each morning as I commute to Chinatown on Metro's Red Line, I am one of the few people not plugged into an iPod or buried in the news blurbs of the Express. When I'm not ripping my hair out and cussing in a tourrettes-esque manner at the absurdity that is DC's 21st century transit system, I usually just sit there gazing out the window at the last bits of blue sky and greenery I will see for the next several hours. And when I'm not gazing at the great outdoors, I'm gazing at the zoo of people boarding and de-boarding the train.
This particular morning, I should've brought my falconry glove. I noticed a gentleman in his early 70s wearing sandals at the far end of the car. Double-take, what?! He had talons on his feet! No wonder he's wearing sandals...so the talons could hang over the edges comfortably! No way those hooked scratchers are fitting into shoes. If only I could've snapped a picture of them. Good thing I had some downtime at work to draw them instead.
This particular morning, I should've brought my falconry glove. I noticed a gentleman in his early 70s wearing sandals at the far end of the car. Double-take, what?! He had talons on his feet! No wonder he's wearing sandals...so the talons could hang over the edges comfortably! No way those hooked scratchers are fitting into shoes. If only I could've snapped a picture of them. Good thing I had some downtime at work to draw them instead.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Oh Cobbler, I crumble for thee
I have a new obsession. I never saw it coming, either. Fruit cobblers? Fruit cobblers!
Now that summer is underway, our favorite fruits of the season have started creeping their way back into grocery stores and farmer's markets. I like fruit, but have never longed for it like I long for most other food items, (Hello, cheese! HELLO, pepperoni!). While I welcome the perfumed aroma of ripe peaches and nectarines, and savor the sweetness of freshly-picked strawberries during a routine visit to the grocery, I now make a bee-line to the produce section with many a glimmer in my eyes. Oh, do I have a plan for you, fruit. In my head swim visions of warm, sweet, juicy slices under a crispy mound of sugary flour topping. Oh, and did I mention the melting scoop of vanilla ice cream on top? No, I did not. I will mention it now. A warm bowlful of steaming hot, fresh fruit and crispy topping, diffused by a melting, creamy scoop of vanilla ice cream. Heaven.
So far since May, I have made four cobblers. The first three were from the same recipe. An Ina Garten food network recipe for peach blueberry crumble. You can't go wrong with this recipe. Instead of using individual ramekins for the crumbles, I put it all in one square casserole dish. And, instead of using fresh fruit, I opted to save a little dough and use frozen. That took some finessing, because my impatience to let the fruit thaw initially resulted in a soupier crumble. And, the fruit never quite softened enough. The second time around, it was perfection. This weekend, I improvised on the fruit and topping by using a couple apples, a couple fresh peaches, blueberries, and a doughier topping. Not bad.
I also learned, during the process that a cobbler is not a crisp, nor is it a crumble. They're all different. But, for these purposes, I will refer to all of my work as cobblers.
Now begins my mission to make as many different fruit cobblers as I can before the summer fizzles out. And in no particular order, here goes...
1. ginger peach
2. peach mango
3. rhubarb apple
4. blueberry nectarine
5. blueberry, raspberry, strawberry
6. blackberry
7. bourbon peach
8. cherry
9. peach raspberry
10. apple cranberry
11. strawberry rhubarb
12. cranberry pear
13. nectarine
14. apple
15. cherry apricot
16. peach blackberry
17. apple, pear, strawberry, potato
18. pear
19. rhubarb peach
20. pineapple
21. pineapple banana
22. plum raspberry
23. apple blueberry
And, maybe when summer season ends, I will embark on a new mission to create some savory cobblers. Pork apple, anyone?
Now that summer is underway, our favorite fruits of the season have started creeping their way back into grocery stores and farmer's markets. I like fruit, but have never longed for it like I long for most other food items, (Hello, cheese! HELLO, pepperoni!). While I welcome the perfumed aroma of ripe peaches and nectarines, and savor the sweetness of freshly-picked strawberries during a routine visit to the grocery, I now make a bee-line to the produce section with many a glimmer in my eyes. Oh, do I have a plan for you, fruit. In my head swim visions of warm, sweet, juicy slices under a crispy mound of sugary flour topping. Oh, and did I mention the melting scoop of vanilla ice cream on top? No, I did not. I will mention it now. A warm bowlful of steaming hot, fresh fruit and crispy topping, diffused by a melting, creamy scoop of vanilla ice cream. Heaven.
So far since May, I have made four cobblers. The first three were from the same recipe. An Ina Garten food network recipe for peach blueberry crumble. You can't go wrong with this recipe. Instead of using individual ramekins for the crumbles, I put it all in one square casserole dish. And, instead of using fresh fruit, I opted to save a little dough and use frozen. That took some finessing, because my impatience to let the fruit thaw initially resulted in a soupier crumble. And, the fruit never quite softened enough. The second time around, it was perfection. This weekend, I improvised on the fruit and topping by using a couple apples, a couple fresh peaches, blueberries, and a doughier topping. Not bad.
I also learned, during the process that a cobbler is not a crisp, nor is it a crumble. They're all different. But, for these purposes, I will refer to all of my work as cobblers.
Now begins my mission to make as many different fruit cobblers as I can before the summer fizzles out. And in no particular order, here goes...
1. ginger peach
2. peach mango
3. rhubarb apple
4. blueberry nectarine
5. blueberry, raspberry, strawberry
6. blackberry
7. bourbon peach
8. cherry
9. peach raspberry
10. apple cranberry
11. strawberry rhubarb
12. cranberry pear
13. nectarine
14. apple
15. cherry apricot
16. peach blackberry
17. apple, pear, strawberry, potato
18. pear
19. rhubarb peach
20. pineapple
21. pineapple banana
22. plum raspberry
23. apple blueberry
And, maybe when summer season ends, I will embark on a new mission to create some savory cobblers. Pork apple, anyone?
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Would you like some chicken salad with that mayonnaise?
Yet again, I've broken my committment to bring lunch from home in my desperate efforts to save money. I especially try hardest to do so on cold, rainy days. Not today.
The only things I could've brought for lunch were guacamole and plain bread. After having walked around Chinatown a few times in the past week to scope out lunch options, I decided today to head to old faithful--Subway. It's not only the cheapest buy for me, but also the one with the healthiest potential. Most of the other sandwich places in the area are at least double the price and double the calories for not necessarily double the pleasure.
As I approached the Subway at 9th and E street, I noticed a sign out front marketing the restaurant's latest "limited edition" sandwich. The Orchard Chicken Salad sandwich. I was intrigued. Cubes of plump, white chicken breast, golden raisins, celery, apple chunks and light mayo. Wow, light mayo?! Go Subway! I was still skeptical, though. Anything with mayo usually means a chunk of extra fat and calories. Subway's tuna salad is one of my guiltiest pleasures, but a 6-inch sub has over 500 calories and 20 grams of fat. I had a hunch that the chicken salad would tell a similiar story. As I neared the counter to order, I planned to inspect the roast beef and ham for marbling to determine whether I would order the Subway Club or just plain turkey. Sometimes either the roast beef and/or the ham have too many lines of grissly fat in it for me to consider ordering it. But, when it came time to order, I noticed the Orchard Chicken Salad ad again, staring me in the face. Upon second glance I noticed that the ad boasted only 8 grams of fat! Change of plans.
After I told the man my order, I waited patiently for him to assemble my sandwich. That's when I saw my liquid lunch scooped out of a bin and slopped onto the warm, formerly fluffy, wheat bread. Nooooooooo. That couldn't be! I looked back up at the ad, examined the chicken lightly coated in mayo (light mayo) and then looked back at the ice cream scoop dripping in white goo. FML. My day is ruined.
With dismay, I forked over my $4 and headed back to the office to eat my sandwich with caution. When I took it out of the bag, I noticed they only put on napkin inside. One napkin?! Honey, I'm gonna need rubber gloves, a bib and a towel to help me eat this thing! Not to mention, a shower and a trip to the dry cleaners afterwards.
I was too afraid to open the bread to look at what I was about to eat. I took one bite. OOooooze. Drip. Drip. Plop. I carefully continued eating and tried my best to wring out the extra mayo. No such luck. As expected, it was everywhere, and the consistency was so odd. There were a few bites of goodness in there scattered amongst the storm. But, overall, this was a huge dissappointment. It had such potential! Talk about false advertising. Industrial Mayonnaise Salad would have been more appropriate.
I am tempted to go try the other Subway up at 7th and H at some point when memories of this lunch retreat to the back of my mind with the other nightmaries. Until then, proceed with caution and ignore the glistening ads!
The only things I could've brought for lunch were guacamole and plain bread. After having walked around Chinatown a few times in the past week to scope out lunch options, I decided today to head to old faithful--Subway. It's not only the cheapest buy for me, but also the one with the healthiest potential. Most of the other sandwich places in the area are at least double the price and double the calories for not necessarily double the pleasure.
As I approached the Subway at 9th and E street, I noticed a sign out front marketing the restaurant's latest "limited edition" sandwich. The Orchard Chicken Salad sandwich. I was intrigued. Cubes of plump, white chicken breast, golden raisins, celery, apple chunks and light mayo. Wow, light mayo?! Go Subway! I was still skeptical, though. Anything with mayo usually means a chunk of extra fat and calories. Subway's tuna salad is one of my guiltiest pleasures, but a 6-inch sub has over 500 calories and 20 grams of fat. I had a hunch that the chicken salad would tell a similiar story. As I neared the counter to order, I planned to inspect the roast beef and ham for marbling to determine whether I would order the Subway Club or just plain turkey. Sometimes either the roast beef and/or the ham have too many lines of grissly fat in it for me to consider ordering it. But, when it came time to order, I noticed the Orchard Chicken Salad ad again, staring me in the face. Upon second glance I noticed that the ad boasted only 8 grams of fat! Change of plans.
After I told the man my order, I waited patiently for him to assemble my sandwich. That's when I saw my liquid lunch scooped out of a bin and slopped onto the warm, formerly fluffy, wheat bread. Nooooooooo. That couldn't be! I looked back up at the ad, examined the chicken lightly coated in mayo (light mayo) and then looked back at the ice cream scoop dripping in white goo. FML. My day is ruined.
With dismay, I forked over my $4 and headed back to the office to eat my sandwich with caution. When I took it out of the bag, I noticed they only put on napkin inside. One napkin?! Honey, I'm gonna need rubber gloves, a bib and a towel to help me eat this thing! Not to mention, a shower and a trip to the dry cleaners afterwards.
I was too afraid to open the bread to look at what I was about to eat. I took one bite. OOooooze. Drip. Drip. Plop. I carefully continued eating and tried my best to wring out the extra mayo. No such luck. As expected, it was everywhere, and the consistency was so odd. There were a few bites of goodness in there scattered amongst the storm. But, overall, this was a huge dissappointment. It had such potential! Talk about false advertising. Industrial Mayonnaise Salad would have been more appropriate.
I am tempted to go try the other Subway up at 7th and H at some point when memories of this lunch retreat to the back of my mind with the other nightmaries. Until then, proceed with caution and ignore the glistening ads!
Saturday, May 8, 2010
What am I, five?
The curious case of Benjamin Button has struck me again. As my friends and I start to prepare for the onsets of our 29th birthdays, I am caught between feelings of a geriatric-like haze and a degeneration that only Benny Button would understand.
The transformation started several months ago when I started to notice, with much offense taken, that I was no longer being called "miss" but instead "ma'am." I didn't think my face has weathered that much. How did they know I was close to turning 30? It's the worst among young, doe-eyed wait staff. Somewhere between "And for the lady?" and "What can I get for you, ma'am?" I've started to resent these kids. Who do they think they are? Well at least I am not in college and look like I'm 12. Take that, kid. But those remarks are starting to give me a little dose of self doubt. Am I that creepy almost-30-year-old at the bar hanging with the young twenty-somethings? Am I the weird almost-30-year-old I used to whisper about and glare at while among the aisles of Forever 21 when I was in college? Please, no. I'm not ready for this quite yet.
What's even more perplexing to me these days is the converse of my un-graceful aging in the public eye--my degenerative health. I used to take pride in how unwaveringly strong my health was. One to two colds per year and that was it. It's not like I'm afflicted by elderly health problems like bed sores, cataracts, or loss of bladder control. Thank God. Au contraire, I've had some very unwelcome blasts from the past. In late March, I became the lucky victim of strep throat. Strep throat? Really? I hadn't had that since I was in primary school! (And, do they even call it "primary school" anymore? I feel like I've just dated myself.) If only they prescribed that delicious liquid medicine from back in those days. Not as horrendous as the horse pills they dole out now. My latest ailment? Pink eye. Got damn! What's next? Head lice? Diaper rash? Colic? I already had the chicken pox. Phew.
Thank goodness for CVS Minute Clinic. The nurse there knows me all to well at this point. I wonder if I can get a frequent visitor discount. I can just see it now on the nurses printout after my visit. Take one pill twice a day for ten days. Drink plenty of fluids. Avoid the moon bounce, playgrounds, and story-telling section of Barnes and Noble.
Sigh.
The transformation started several months ago when I started to notice, with much offense taken, that I was no longer being called "miss" but instead "ma'am." I didn't think my face has weathered that much. How did they know I was close to turning 30? It's the worst among young, doe-eyed wait staff. Somewhere between "And for the lady?" and "What can I get for you, ma'am?" I've started to resent these kids. Who do they think they are? Well at least I am not in college and look like I'm 12. Take that, kid. But those remarks are starting to give me a little dose of self doubt. Am I that creepy almost-30-year-old at the bar hanging with the young twenty-somethings? Am I the weird almost-30-year-old I used to whisper about and glare at while among the aisles of Forever 21 when I was in college? Please, no. I'm not ready for this quite yet.
What's even more perplexing to me these days is the converse of my un-graceful aging in the public eye--my degenerative health. I used to take pride in how unwaveringly strong my health was. One to two colds per year and that was it. It's not like I'm afflicted by elderly health problems like bed sores, cataracts, or loss of bladder control. Thank God. Au contraire, I've had some very unwelcome blasts from the past. In late March, I became the lucky victim of strep throat. Strep throat? Really? I hadn't had that since I was in primary school! (And, do they even call it "primary school" anymore? I feel like I've just dated myself.) If only they prescribed that delicious liquid medicine from back in those days. Not as horrendous as the horse pills they dole out now. My latest ailment? Pink eye. Got damn! What's next? Head lice? Diaper rash? Colic? I already had the chicken pox. Phew.
Thank goodness for CVS Minute Clinic. The nurse there knows me all to well at this point. I wonder if I can get a frequent visitor discount. I can just see it now on the nurses printout after my visit. Take one pill twice a day for ten days. Drink plenty of fluids. Avoid the moon bounce, playgrounds, and story-telling section of Barnes and Noble.
Sigh.
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