February 2008

Chicken Parmesan is a weakness of mine — one of those unfortunate weaknesses that makes my ass look big. So I was thrilled to find a healthy-ish version of this usually deadly recipe in the cookbook Ben got me for Christmas, The Best of Cooking Light.

The book is really great about making “normal” dishes a bit better for you rather than just having really weirdo stuff that involves a lot of bean curd and twigs and things — and they list all the nutritional information after each dish. It’s fancy without requiring special skills or ingredients and it has pictures for most of the recipes — and I get to make a few new, awesome things every week from it. You can buy it here

Below is what I made last night, which involves Cooking Light’s ingenious recipe (with a few of my little changes).

The chicken:

• 4 boneless, skinless chicken breasts
• 1/2 cup seasoned bread crumbs
• 1/4 cup grated Parmesan cheese
• 1/2 teaspoon dried Italian seasoning
• 1/8 teaspoon black pepper
• 1/3 cup flour
• 2 large egg whites, lightly beaten
• 2 teaspoons olive oil (I needed a bit more than that)

The tomato sauce and noodles

• 2 teaspoons olive oil
• 1 onion, chopped
• 4 garlic cloves
• 2 tablespoons red wine vinegar
• 1 small can of tomato paste
• 1 big can of stewed whole plum tomatoes
• some oregano and parsley and black pepper
• lots of fresh basil
• 10 ounces dried spaghetti (we use whole wheat)
• 1 cup fresh shredded part-skim mozzarella cheese (the fresh part makes a big difference

1. Place each chicken breast between two sheets of plastic wrap and flatted to 1/4-inch thickness with a meat mallet or rolling pin (we use a whiskey bottle).

2. Combine breadcrumbs, Parmesan cheese, Italian seasoning, and pepper in a dish. Dredge each breast in flour, then dip them in the egg whites, then the bread crumbs.

3. Heat a large non-stick skillet over medium-high heat. Cook 3 minutes on each side (or until done).

4. For the sauce, heat the oil and garlic in a large saucepan. add the onions and cook until clear, about five minutes. Add everything else (except the basil), bring to a boil, and then let simmer while you prepare the chicken and cook the pasta. Right before you’re done, take the sauce off the heat and add the fresh basil.

5. Cook the spaghetti and place it in the bottom of a 9 X 7 inch glass baking dish (or similar). Pour half of the sauce over the spaghetti. Place the chicken breasts on top of that, and then cover the breasts with the remaining sauce. Sprinkle with mozzarella cheese. Broil for about three minutes, or until the cheese melts.

We served ours with whole-wheat garlic bread and green beans.

It’s my last day in an office, as an office-monkey. Hopefully, it will be my last day in any office, ever.

I feel extremely manic - like whenever anyone says anything to me, I want to scream, “Screw you!” and then give them the utterly immature double-birdie. This is totally regardless of who they are or what they say to me. It’s kind of a nice feeling, although I hope I can make it through the day without actually doing it.

In a final and desperate fuck you from Pavlov’s administrative assistant, I have been asked to pack every single history book, premium, and sales tool in the office and ship them to Boston (where my position is moving after I leave), all on my last day. This is a lot of stuff and the task is almost laughably impossible. However, in my heightened, almost-superhero state of bliss, I am tackling the project with speed, superhuman strength, and a big, sloppy smile on my face.

It’s kind of like when some petite woman’s toddler gets pinned under a car (how do toddlers always seem to manage this??) and she somehow summons her five-foot-two, 100-pound body to lift the car off the ground and save her child. You know what that’s called? It’s call love making even the most impossible things possible. Of course, in my case, I’m accomplishing the impossible due to my deep, black, seething, paranoid, hate. But it still feels good.

And when I get off this afternoon, I’m going to eat a big hamburger with Ben and then meet all my friends for drinks at a tacky bar. And tomorrow, for the first time, I’m the only one who gets to tell me what to do.

Valentine’s Day falls into a very specific set of unfortunate holidays I like to classify as Days You Very Well Might Receive a Gift Or Card From Someone When You Have Nothing To Give Them In Return. Other holidays that fit into this category range from Christmas (”No, you shouldn’t have!”) to St. Patrick’s Day (”No, you really, really shouldn’t have.”)

These people might be friends, co-workers, acquaintances, neighbors – all with cellophaned cookies or candy hearts or, God Forbid, valentines. They hand you your gift, look at you, smile, and then comes the uncomfortable interminable moment where they figure out you don’t have anything for them in return.

Now, don’t get me wrong – I love getting things. But I’m also a somewhat cheap, very lazy, utterly unorganized person. I am not the girl in your office who arrives on Valentine’s Day in a pink sweater with individually wrapped and labeled homemade chocolate-dipped strawberries for everyone on the floor, possibly along with some kid-themed cardboard cut-out valentines like the kind you used to fill out in fifth grade. I’m more like the girl in your office who can’t even remember the name of the front desk secretary who has worked for the company for thirty years. Like so many other things in my life, it’s not because I’m mean, it’s because I’m stupid.

That’s why I prefer get-together and party-based holidays like Independence Day, Thanksgiving, and Halloween – holidays that focus on things like food and patriotism and goblins. Holidays that involve everyone you know gathering together and really celebrating. Sure, you have to bring something to the party or dress like a sexy janitor, but you don’t have to remember to give something to every single important person in your life, on the risk of forgetting someone and hurting their feelings. At this point, days like Christmas or Valentine’s Day really stress me out — there’s too much preparation and too many weird social rules to remember.

Lot s of times, it even seems to me that Valentine’s Day has devolved to the point that it’s not even about making the person you love happy, it’s simply about not disappointing them. More and more I see men sweating out V-Day like it’s some sort of romance gauntlet that they must survive without doing any serious damage to their relationship.

Other times, I feel like women almost torture their significant other by making men do uncomfortable things to prove their love: go to a fancy restaurant in uncomfortable clothes or buy something that they don’t know much about, like flowers or jewelry.
And it irks me to no end when people ask me what Ben did for me for Valentine’s Day. Would you ask me what he did for me on, say, Tuesday? Because on Tuesday he came home with a bottle of wine and a frozen pizza because we’d both had rough days. On Valentine’s Day, we don’t have anything planned (thanks for not asking).

But this isn’t about how good or bad my relationship is or about one-upping one another. It’s about changing the face of Valentine’s Day – maybe toward something more turkey- or firework-themed? Don’t be surprised when I don’t have raspberry-filled heart-shaped sugar cookies for you when hand me yours, but also don’t be surprised when you and I have a really wonderful Fourth of July together.

Here’s the thing: I’m really caught up in Obama’s campaign. I’ve always been interested and active in politics, but Obama has made me take action, and I think he can do the same for the country.

My biggest fear, right now, is that the cynics are right and that Obama is all inspirational speeches and no substance.

And so last night, as I was drifting off to sleep after a night of watching the “Potomac Primaries” coverage, I had this weird, half-conscious nightmare in which my candidate of choice, Barack Obama, is actually elected to office. After defending him countless times and donating to his causes and putting my political reputation on the line by backing him, he is sworn in as president and makes his way to the oval office for the first time.

As he takes his seat, though, as perhaps the most important political figure in the world, a big smile appears on his face and an evil laugh erupts from the depths of his belly. He kicks his shoes off and puts his feet up on the desk, messing up a pile of important bills and documents without a care.

“Could I possibly have the AUDACITY to HOPE to get a beer around here?” he barks at the nearest two interns. “Maybe a six pack? Or a couple of 40s?”

The interns are frozen in their places, pale and speechless, shocked beyond any sort of reaction.

Obama speaks on: “In fact, as President of the United States, I’d like you to find me some go-go dancers, all dressed like the American flag and shit, you know, with sequins. And I’d like a tri-corned hat filled with blow. And a DVD of Happy Gilmore.”

The interns remain silent and motionless.

“Can we do that?”

“I… we can get started on it,” one intern stutters.

“Those aren’t the words I want to hear!”

“I…. yes, I guess,” the other intern stumbles.

“Say YES WE CAN!”

“Yes we can,” they manage.

“Say YES WE CAN to go-go dancers, Adam Sandler, cocaine, and the American flag!”

“YES WE CAN! YES WE CAN!”

 *

The point of this half-conscious worst-case scenario nightmare is, I think, that it won’t happen. Sure, the nay-sayers on CNN’s Political Ticker (which I am obsessed with) claim that Obama is all speeches and that as soon as he gets to the White House, he’ll just install a basketball court in the Rose Garden and fly over all of his Kenyan relatives to live in the West Wing and weave baskets in the Lincoln bedroom.

But I don’t think it will be that bad. In fact, I think he might do a pretty damn good job. Tri-cornered hat full of blow or not.

I think at this point to me, he sometimes seems too good to be true — and that sometimes the cynicism of others can get to me. But like he said last night in Madison, “cynicism is the saddest kind of wisdom.”

I’m feeling a little stressed today - although my freelance load is picking up, I’ve still got to show up at work during the day. It makes for some close deadlines and this constant feeling that I should be doing something other than what I’m doing. And so today I found myself “pulling Hilarys” at even the smallest things.

Here are a few things that made me well up today - things that I would usually ridicule someone else for almost crying about:

1. A commercial about a hospice. Violins and the fragility of life were involved. Fair enough.
2. Ordering New England clam chowder and receiving Manhattan clam chowder. While this would normally be seen as a simple misunderstanding, especially considering we were in Manhattan, tonight I treated it as if the waitress was being an unfeeling regional-ist whore. Fair enough?
3. Ben teasing me.
4. Ben saying something neutral to me.
5. Ben saying something nice to me.
6. Ben asking me if something is wrong.
7. Looking at the falling snow. It was so beautiful! Sniff, sniff.
8. Looking at a picture of an email forwarded to me that featured a dog with a heart-shaped brown spot on it.
9. Not looking at a picture of an email forwarded to me that featured a dog with a heart-shaped brown spot on it, but merely thinking back on it.

Entering our gym yesterday, Ben and I noticed a new sign taped on the door advertising a Valentine’s Day Sale in which you could get your sweetheart a membership and some private sessions for a reduced cost. We both thought this was odd and probably a bad idea - but assumed that it was an isolated case of a bad marketing idea. But - low and behold, my friend Brian also saw a similar sign at a different gym in a different borough.

I can see it now — men making this mistake all throughout New York City: “Hey honey! For Valentine’s Day I got you that gym membership that you’ve never mentioned you wanted!”

Now, don’t get me wrong: I can envision a situation in which this would be an acceptable V-Day gift. For example, if your girlfriend or wife already has a membership at said gym and the membership is about to expire, and if your girlfriend was also untraditional enough to want something practical for Valentine’s Day instead of, say, a pink talking stuffed dog.

However, for the most part, I think that this is a BAD gift idea for a woman on the most romantic of fake holidays. Why not just sit her down on Valentine’s Day and explain to her that you are no longer physically attracted to her? Why not just take out the middleman and break up with her?

Lord knows I’m no expert on women, but I’ve watched enough Lifetime Original Movies to understand that whatever you give her on Thursday better 1) be pink and heart-shaped and 2) not imply that she needs to put in some time on the treadmill.

Or have we misinterpreted this V-Day gym membership sale entirely? Are you supposed to get a gym membership for yourself, so that you improve your looks and stamina for your partner? I think that might be a little too abstract. Maybe we should stick to flowers and boxes of chocolates.

Of course, I should mention that Ben and I don’t celebrate Valentine’s Day - or we do, but only as a joke. I think last year we went to the grocery store and bought one of those giant heart-shaped cookies together and then ate way too much of it while watching TV. It was kind of gross.

(These are some adorable and hilarious candy hearts  my friend Hilary made for me to help me get through my last week - what Ben is calling my “victory lap.”)

Coming in at #6 in our Top Ten Countdown of things I won’t miss about my office job is… not having any control.

And mostly, I’m talking about my paycheck. There it is, every two weeks: the same amount of money, down to the cent. While people with families or other responsibilities might find this comforting, I find it really unmotivating and stifling.

Because the thing is, I could do a really, really crappy job this week - come in late, leave early, long lunches, shoddy spreadsheets, etc. Or I could do a really, really awesome job - stay after hours, skip lunch, be meticulous, not make personal phone calls, etc. And either way (or somewhere in the middle, where I usually end up), I get paid the exact same amount. Down. To. The. Cent.

There’s simply no reward for doing a good job. You could get a promotion (unlikely for my position) or you could get a raise (we saw how that went) or you could get some praise from your boss (praise pays exactly 0% of your rent). A smart person in my position would do the least amount necessary to keep their job. But that’s no way to live.

By freelancing, I get to make my own decisions about how much I make. If I want to work a grueling 12-hour day and make $500, I would be free to do that. Or, if I wanted to take a day off, I could, keeping in mind that I wouldn’t make a dollar. Even though I’m giving up the luxury of knowing exactly how much I’ll make in a day or a month, I’m also getting the luxury of being in control of how much I make.

The bottom line is that my actions will be reflected in the results. And that’s pretty important to my mental health and general outlook on life.