One Bottle of Wine over the Line, Sweet Jesus

The setting: Book Club at Jamie's, Thursday, 6:30 p.m., in Chicago

Six ladies get together to discuss the Jodi Picoult novel Nineteen Minutes. For those who aren't familiar with the piece, it's pretty heavy subject matter. I gave it three of five stars. Extremely thought-provoking material, but it drags in the middle.

At book club there were old friends, new friends, veggie trays, stuffed mushrooms, and Taquitos.

And there was wine.

For those who aren't familiar with book club culture, it entails getting together to discuss a pre-selected book (hence the name). One club member hosts at her (or his) abode; the gigs tend to rotate each meeting. Everyone brings a dish and/or drink, and the book discussion always leads to interesting conversation, digression and musings (my favorite!). It's a nice time to unwind, dish and nosh.

And drink wine.

Last night's club was at my friend Jamie's, and she really is a super hostess. She has a great selection of wine (I'm envious). I'm pretty sure I lost track at the fourth glass, but red and white, all glasses were delicious.

It was a school night. I typically reserve this type of behavior for non-school nights. A few glasses AT MOST of wine on school nights is justified by things like work events, or something really special, like a birthday or novelty outing. Happy hour is one thing. But this was one bottle over the line.

Needless to say, I pulled it together today. I'm actually quite proud. Somehow, I pushed through the day and (gasp!) was quite productive. All the while I thought if it was a weekend day, I'd be on the couch, reading or watching It's Always Sunny re-runs. Alas, I pulled it together with the help of Operation Hydration and a big, greasy, delicious cheeseburger and steak fries at Mystic Celt.

But the real muse for this post is the book club and wine thing...they are truly synonymous! I had no idea (this was my second official book club.) Next time, I'll practice a little more self-control. (What can I say? It was a crazy/busy/stressful week...) Future recipes for book club include one glass wine, one part substance (preferably Buffalo chicken wings, or Jamie's famous Buffalo chicken dip), and one glass H20. Rinse and repeat ONCE.

(For those of you who are interested, Jamie's husband Brent had to flip a coin for next month's selection due to a dead tie between Snowflower and the Secret Fan and The Shack. Snowflower won.)

And I think that's the real lesson learned here, that book club and overdoing it DO NOT have to be symbiotic. Wine? Sure. Hangovers? Only if it's a weekend-night meeting.

I've said it before and I'll say it again, I'm never wining on school nights again.

The Stairs Were My Frenemies

Oh. My. God.

Tonight I had the pleasure, pain and overwhelming adrenaline-rushed joy of attending my first spin class at my gym. Like so many amazing experiences, it was decided on a whim. I planned on meeting my friend Janelle and doing a little elliptical while catching up on TV; you know, the sort of workout a former (eh-hum) athlete who is just beginning to flirt with a regular physical routine again resigns to.

Said ellipticals were full. I tried to get on one lonely machine, which turned out to be broken. Then Janelle comes up and says, "Do you want to do the Free Wheelin' class?"

Janelle is young, energetic and most importantly, in great shape. I think about it, and I was a bit frightened and intimidated. I heard once that spin class instructors turn off the lights, play loud techno, and yell things at you like "We're approaching a hill" and "Sprint faster. FASTER!"

Hmm...

But my curious, thrill-seeking self trumped my scaredy-cat self. I said, "Sure. Why the hell not?"

I obtained my class pass from the front desk; apparently, people love this spinning stuff so much you have to reserve a spot. We arrive 15 minutes early. Fifteen minutes. And there are people already settling in, warming up, adjusting their bikes. Some of them are in cycling gear. I was beginning to get a little warm with that intimidation thing again.

Janelle helps me adjust my handles. The seat seems just right. I think to myself, "What a bad day to forget to snag a water bottle from the work fridge."

The instructor arrived, and I pontificate whether or not he consumed a six- or twelve-pack of Red Bull prior. This guy was PUMPED. We begin fairly aggressively peddling during the warm up (or, I'm just that out of shape), and quickly proceed to flat road, hill-climbing, sprinting, flat road, rolling hills, sprinting, hill-climbing. Then take 10 seconds for a water break (Shit; forgot my water). Then repeat. All in intervals.

Yes, the class opened with "Single Ladies," and there was even a guest appearance by J. Geils Band. (I LOVE that the instructor asked for a show of hands for those born before 1980, because I waived mine proudly in between gasps for air.) We rocked out to "Angel is the Centerfold," which actually made the semi-excruciating sprints fun.

We were 30 minutes into the class, and I wasn't ready to pass out! I was so proud...even with my taken-down-a-notch peddling during some of the hill-climbing. (You have to stand, while peddling, after adjusting your resistance quite high. Need I say more?)

More intervals.

The flat road, hill climbing, sprinting, rolling hills, sprinting, hill climbing, flat road, sprinting. Take a break for water (Shit.) Then "Sprint ,sprint, sprint, and get what you want outta this class!" (Something like that; I may have blacked out from pushing myself hard. But not unsafely hard. It felt good.)

After two final minutes of the crazy sprint, we were done. It was cool-down time, which included some of the best stretching I've ever had. I'm talking euphoria, people. I felt so amazing at the end of class. I thanked Janelle a dozen or so times for suggesting the class at all (and for the ride home, too...it's freaking cold out there!) And most of all, I thanked myself for having the guts to give it a shot.

On our way to the locker room, we walked down the two unnaturally high sets of stairs, and my legs almost gave out. They were Jell-O. It felt so good to not feel them at all.

"Drink lots of water tonight," Janelle warned me. "I didn't the first time I did this class, and the next morning my muscles were really sore."

If you'll excuse me, I need to refill my glass.

Back on the Reading Rainbow Wagon

My entire life, I have thoroughly enjoyed reading. Books, magazines, papers, poetry, essays, the dictionary, the thesaurus...you get the point. Take one part being the daughter of an English teacher and writer, and another part having been read to before bed by one of your parents while growing up, and you tend to develop a passion. It's unavoidable.

It's one of the best things my parents did for me, for so many reasons. Actually, said reasons constitute their own dozen or so posts. I don't want to digress.

This leads me to what I know fondly (finally) refer to as my falling-off-the-wagon period. I didn't stop reading completely; oh no. But any avid reader or writer will tell you that while informative, relative and enriching on some levels, Vogue, W, Rolling Stone and various online media sources do not equal the Waldorf-Astoria of readership. Of course, I always know the latest designers, up-and-coming artists on the scene and political to-dos, but where is the character development? How I longed for the exquisite detail of a landscape, or a city. The flaws, the glories and the pulsing emotion.

Where was my lavish escape from the daily idiosyncrasies of life, even if it was obtained, ironically at times, via the minutia of fictional characters?

Cut to February 2008. Almost one year ago. I became another statistic in the worst bout of unemployment since the 1980s . After a few months of waking up, cooking breakfast, drinking coffee, semi-watching "The View," revising my resume, networking, reviewing/applying for open jobs, hanging out with my also unemployed bestie, and drinking the occasional vodka on the rocks, I thought...I bet I can exercise my mind JUST a little more than this. So I picked up Bram Stoker's Dracula, and away it went...

I was back on the reading wagon.

Then on a visit home, I shared my new, worldly status with my writer mom. Elation ensured. She was became so overwhelmed at the fact that I finally let books back in to my life; enough so to purchase me several classics and fictional newbies, all recommended by the most avid reader I know.

I was hooked all over again. I devoured the books, week after week, or month after month, depending on the content and author. I got lost in their worlds, and it was just the cathartic therapy I needed during one of the most difficult times of my life.

The new job came in July, six total months after the layoff. And thankfully, the reading didn't stop. It's safe to say I've gone all out, joining Goodreads and such. My friends and I now have book club (meeting two, this Thursday!), I swap book ideas with friends and co-workers, which ultimately leads to interesting conversation. And who doesn't appreciate that? I even have two or three books my Phil wants me to read, which I have already deemed a little too scifi for my liking, but hey..I'm going to give them a shot, too. It's great to be with someone who values the written word equally. Amazingly refreshing, really.

So today's musing is to GET A BOOK and READ IT!

It can be a book of poems, essays or short stories...or chicklit, or Tolstoy . Just something that will expand your mind. You'll feel different after each page, so imagine how thought provoking an entire read is.

Not that there's anything ultimately wrong with Vogue, barring any opinions on the modern feminine physical ideal. Or even the weeklies (you know who you are; we all love a little celeb dish, no matter how horrific the paps are).

But get yourself a bound copy of something, and trust me, be prepared for a positive life change.

Until spring -- I'll be obsessing over reading!

E.

Stir-fried Stir-craziness

It's official. I'm on unofficial house arrest, the product of months of inclement weather.

I don't know how people do it, but I certainly don't feel like taking 10 or so minutes to put on all the layers, scarf, gloves, hat, etc. (hating hat head all the way) just to trudge out in the 10-degree grey city canvas. I love this city, but I apparently love my warm apartment even more. I'm trying really hard to not bounce off the walls, but it's unavoidable to get a little cabin-fever around mid-January. The next event highlight is St. Patty's Day -- for many in this metro, it's a fantastic drunken celebration...but for me, it always marks the quasi-unofficial start of spring. In Chicago-speak, that means six or so weeks until the ground barely begins to thaw, and you see birds returning that have been absent since fall. It truly is something glorious to look forward to, after almost six months of utter frigidity. In the meantime, there's the obligatory "Why the hell do I live here?!" stammering, daily to multi-daily, now through April.

Then spring hits, and I remember why this is one of the greatest cities on earth, and why I'm so luckyhappythankfuletc to be here. Can you imagine if the Chicago climate was pleasant year-round? We'd have some serious population issues...sometimes, you gotta keep a good thing under wraps. Even if it means freezing your wrap ass off almost half the year. It makes the other half that much more sweet.