Facebook

Thursday, November 25, 2010

A cup o’ Joe from "Star-kin" for this Jane

There’s a bickering going on between coffee drinkers about the quality and taste that compares Starbucks and Dunkin Donuts when in need of a caffeine fix.


I’ve had the experience of having to throw away a Starbucks coffee because it tasted like burned horse piss; so I decided to move my 2 dollars into Dunkin Donuts coffee for a test.

True facts is that the ambience it’s not as nice as Starbucks and the pastries offered are reduced only to Donuts and Bagels, rather than a nice Cranberry muffin or a Lemon Loaf; however, the coffee smells and tastes fresh (no burnt smell to be found) and you’re in and out with your drink before you can say Jack Robinson (I cannot use the work Cock to replicate the Spanish phrase).

It’s a great choice if you’re having it in your office rather than staying on location to drink it.

Timing is another big issue for my impatient self, because wasting more than 3 minutes in buying coffee it’s more than I can cope with. I hate being in line waiting and it’s worse when I’m behind someone that wants their “Tall, Decaf, Non-foam, Skinny, Caramel Latte… with sweetener”.

I mean, how complicated can it be to order a coffee straight from the menu?

I had a discussion on Sunday regarding this matter. One Peruvian guy tried to convince me that Starbucks was the best coffee ever, without ever having tried Dunkin Donuts… needless to say that his argument wasn’t strong enough to change me (nor my caffeinated self); however mine, was strong enough to place an ounce of doubt into his brain… he’ll be trying a Chai Latte from Dunkin Donuts soon enough.

Dear tourists: keep crowding Starbucks’s ordering line, keep clustering the tables and seats, breathing the burnt coffee aroma each store breaths and maintain our Dunkin Donuts lines free and clear, for me to order my Latte in an acceptable timely fashion, without getting dizzy or crush by ignorant coffee drinkers who don’t understand the difference between a Cup of Joe and a Cup o’ scorched Joe.
 
Now while we're on the subject, how incredible would it be to be able to enjoy a mix between Starbucks and its pastries, as well as Dunkin and its coffee in the same shop... Star-Kin, with a decor between an Italian kitchen and a German billiard room, white tiles with wood furniture... NOT!

Monday, November 15, 2010

Wife, Friend, Companion, Parnter, Team player... everything but Masseuse

My husband has a high consideration for me. He respects me and thinks that I can accomplish anything that I commit myself to… if I want to (of course).

However, there’s one particular aspect of my talents that he knows, firsthand, I’m lacking: my massage-giving ability.

This is an issue for us, because he loves a back rubbing and I don’t particularly enjoy it.

I squirm under the hand of the masseuse because my muscles hurt whenever someone is giving me a rubdown, so I tend to avoid it. Not my husband though, he loves someone kneading her back… so my Neanderthal-type touch is horrible in comparison to what a real masseuse can offer him (and I completely understand and encourage him to try a massage somewhere else).

The thing is that with all the studying he’s been doing for an exam he has to do on December, his free time (or our free time together) has been reduced to dinners and 45 minutes of an episode of The Mentalist once a week… not much to work with if you want to add additional ‘activities’ in-between… So I’ve become the full-time masseuse in our household.

My husband tries not to make me feel bad (considering the sacrifice I’m making to doing something that I’m awful at and I don’t completely enjoy) but the other day, after a lame attempt from my side to achieve a decent massage, he stood up, looked me in the eyes and told me:

- Honey, there are few things that you can’t do in your life, and a massage is definitely one of them. You completely lack the patience for it!

… Which it’s true!!

I’m impatient and that profession is for someone with centered body energy, someone who practices Yoga and eats dinner at a slow pace… not me!

I roll over life, accomplishing professional successes and personal improvements (less stubbornness, more tolerability, less speed in my day-to-day activities, more slow-paced actions)… maybe when I feel the need to slow down and take importance in other parts of my life, I’ll be able to triumph in those aspects and develop the ability to do a decent massage; but until that time comes; I’m pretty sure I’ll not be performing any neck rubbing, feet smoothing, back kneading… to anyone… anymore.

I’m a spastic person; whoever thought that I could perform a flawless massage doesn’t know me or my lack in Spa-type activities likeness.

My husband now knows that I can’t even pretend to be good at it… my hands don’t help, my impatience doesn’t help, my revulsion to moisturizing-cream doesn’t help (such a greasy product, yuck!).

Some of us are born masseuses, I was just born everything else (minus the masseuse thing).'

Wednesday, November 10, 2010

Astrology: science or superstition?

We had a get together with one of my best friends here in NY.
She came to our house to have dinner with my husband and I… we ordered Pizza and Sushi, accompanied by a bottle of Argentinean wine, of course.

She’s kind of the guru of the group, always interested in the planets, the energy, the universe, the season changes, etc… I wouldn’t call her an expert, I'd call her a potential expert, someone that has the ability to understand all that mumbo-jumbo and get some sense out of it.
My husband and I are both Taurus, rarely enough, according to my friend’s diagnostic, we have the same ascendant, we’ve the same drive in our professional career (and the other ‘career’ as well), both were destined to succeed in foreign countries and we’re so similar that is boring to even describe it.
Some people might have been worried by these results… I mean, I don’t think that being different to the person that you’re with brings the fun in a relationship, however, for most people; the adventurous ingredient comes from the uncertainty that the other spouse might do something unexpected.

These people haven’t met my husband.

We might have the same planets aligned in a particular way when we were born, or have the same zodiac sign, or even have the same ‘possibilities’ in our future (at least that’s what our Astrology chart said)… but we’re far off being equal or boringly similar.
He’s crazy gorgeous with his Latino self and European behaviour (the perfect combination), he loves music and can extend the shower time just to try a new tune under the water, he’s risky when eating in new places and dresses as an English gentleman.

I’m strong willed, always right and straight as an arrow… but I’m also funny, I love to dance even though I get embarrassed easily. I’m a great cook (testimonies from my fellow guests) – which goes perfect with his savvy appetite – I accept suggestions for dress advice (but that’s it), I eat kind of boring (bread and cheese) but I don’t mind doing a feast for everybody else... and most importantly, I’m a sweetheart (at least most of the time).

We make a good team... Taurus and all, Professionally driven and all, Strong willed and all… we’re perfect for each other. I don’t think that any other person in the world would ever endure my personality if he didn’t love me as my husband does… and I particularly think that no other person in the world would tolerate the protectiveness of my husband if she didn’t love him as I do.

Between my crazy beautiful dog, my crazy gorgeous self, and my crazy stunning husband... we make the most strikingly crazy family.

Tuesday, November 9, 2010

Dealing with handymen… difficult enough, and if you add the language difference, impossible!

For the past four months we’ve had a leak in our bathroom… it started small, but as every water trickle, the damage builds up with every day that passes.
Being that me and my husband are not always in the apartment during business hours for the handymen of our building, most of the time I have to call the manager (who speaks Polish) and explain to him in English (with the difficulty that I don’t know the technicalities in that language) what do I need from them.
Finally, after several months of trying to ‘discover’ the source (which every plumber can tell you it’s an impossible task if you don’t tear down the wall), we finally pinpointed the problem in the shower.
The verdict was that we spent 10 days without taking a shower… well, not literally, just not in our bathroom.
6 am every morning, I’ll cross the hall to our aunt’s apartment in my PJ’s and the pillow still stuck to my face – ‘quite in the morning mode’ as my mom refers to it – dreading to find a fellow neighbour and give them the harsh reality that my blond, sleek, brushed hair, is not that sleek and smooth when I just stepped out of bed… neither is my face that friendly, nor my mood that welcoming… needless to say that at 6 am, no one is their usual, polished self!
Ten days later, we had our bathroom fixed… in the in-between, during my stealth visits to our aunt’s bathroom, I forgot my shampoo twice, I finished the soap in the middle of my bath (no new one in sight), I dropped my towel running to the door (luckily, no one gets up that early) and I even forgot my clothes… needless to say that when the time came of finally having the problem fixed, I was ecstatic!
Two days later, I still had daily visits from the Handymen… wall kept showing leakage remnants… now the problem wasn’t in the shower, it was in the faucets… later on, was the Dishwasher… after that I lost count.
Handymen are always driving around the problem thinking that you’re stupid enough to buy all the bull they feed you, like your master degree doesn’t apply to plumbing… they haven’t met me.
I set my mind to pester them with requests… daily ones… so they have to; no… NEED TO, fix my problem… because if they continue coming to my house with new theories as to why my wall is falling apart, I’ll come back with real facts to call and call and call and call… you get me?
If life gives you lemons, make calls.

Monday, November 8, 2010

Wine: really god, good for a mix or good for nothing

In the alcoholic beverage industry, ‘drinkability’ refers to the fact that a product has the aptitude to give your sobriety a bit more time before drunkenness takes over.


For me, ‘drinkability’ is the adjective that I give to a drink that has the standard to be ingested (or not).

According to my taste, not many beverages attain this level; mainly because I’m an awful drinker (I get drunk pretty easy), everything tastes sour or needs more sugar (I have a sweet tooth, what can I say) or more importantly, the level of alcohol is indigestible.

As a truthful Argentinean, Malbec wine is one of my favourite types of grapes, and I like it even more if the brand is Fabre Montmayou (my father’s vineyard of course); however, not every Malbec wine taste the same and when I can’t find my brand of choice, my husband chooses for me.

When we have a get together at home, our friends bring their choice of beverage and we offer the food. That’s the way it works for us, because we’re always so many!!

At the end of every party, we have our refrigerator full of alcohol, some of which we’ve never seen nor tried in our lives... and pity to say that even considering the fact that I'm from Argentina, most of our friends bring us wines from Australia and Chile, rather than from my home country!! COME ON PEOPLE!

This weekend, my husband was studying (yet again) and I was bored out of my mind, so I decided to pour me a drink. I found a bottle of wine from Chile (not my preferred choice of origin) and grabbed a glass from our countertop.

I took a sip of my drink.

It tasted like old horses blankets soaked in urine.

I coughed explosively.

- What happened? – asked my hubby

- Nothing – I responded with water in my eyes and dabbing my mouth with a napkin

- You tried the wine, didn’t you?

- Uhhh? How do you know?

- Brave girl – he said while patting me in the back – THAT one was to be mixed with the 'Wine-A-Rita'… Fermented… that’s how it tastes.

- Rotten… putrid… THAT’s how it tastes! – I said still coughing.

For you, ignorant readers, ‘Wine-A-Rita’ is the best invention ever… it permits you to recycle an awful wine into a sugary, fruity, tasty margarita… made from wine… hence: Wine-A-Rita.

Blend it, and ready to serve!

I bought 6 packs online for my sisters who’re coming from Argentina and the Dominican Republic for Thanksgiving… I’m planning on get them completely wasted!!
 
www.wineglace.com
http://www.domainevistalba.com/

Saturday, November 6, 2010

Seasoning that pours out of you

Have you ever pondered over the expression: ‘it doesn’t suit me’?

For example, I have this weak stomach and I try to eat pretty blandly because nothing ‘suits me’…no, I’m not referring to clothes (even thought that is your first perception when you hear the frase), I’m referring to the fact that anything that I eat (out of cheese, bread, yogurt and green vegetables) does not sit well on my stomach.
After several months of eating like a two-year-old, all the insipid, wishy-washy food tastes like crap; so in my attempts to spicy up my dinner a bit, I decided to try some new seasonings… or better said, the same old flavours, but applied to new dishes.
Thursday night is on us, so my husband and I opened a bottle of wine and started perusing the refrigerator for an ounce of inspiration regarding our dinner options.
I love baked food… anything that fits in an oven, so I decided to do some Bruschettas and cut some cheese, to go with it. Since I can’t eat tomato (the main ingredient for this dish) I started mixing several spices into the mozzarella to create a culinary rarity (maybe I was going to be famous for it), and more importantly, to avoid have to eat plain Bread & Cheese yet again.
We removed the sizzling dish from the oven and in a silent ceremony; we separated our Bruschettas… tomato for my husband…‘weird looking cheese’ for me.
At first, the explosion of flavour was too much to handle… it was so long since I tasted anything that… ‘tasty’ (excuse the repetition). The cheese melted with the garlic, oregano, salt, nutmeg, olive oil… simply: incredible!

(5 minutes later)
I noticed that my skin was oozing a particular scent… body odour plus something else… so I decided to take my night shower and get it off me before my husband would notice that he had a smelly wife.

(10 minutes later)
Even my nails had a particular aroma… while I tried to decipher the reason that I smelled like a decaying old lady, my husband enter our room and said:

- My god! What is that smell? (ugly smell face)

I couldn’t possibly tell him that I was decomposing so I just mastered my ‘innocent’ face and looked dumbfounded while thinking: I’m positively dying!

(1 second later)
Of course!
The garlic!
I was breathing an aura of garlic that even an individual with an olfactory deficiency wouldn’t miss.
I breathed a sigh of relief, I wasn’t dying after all… and I told my husband:

- It’s me honey… it seems the garlic, doesn’t suit me after all (sweet wife face)

And then:

- Get used to it, because we still have 8 hours of sleep to do and I’m positively sure that I’ll be emanating our Bruschettas in the process… my skin will be complaining of my dinner choice all night (rude wife face)… and don’t even think about sleeping on the sofa.

Karma is what I’m dreading… one thing is me with a ‘Garlic Aura’… another completely different thing is my husband with another type of aura… onion, pepperoni, red pepper...
C-R-A-P!

Monday, November 1, 2010

Who let the dead out? Who let the zombies out? Who let THEM out?

Halloween came and went, and with it, our only chance in the year to become whomever (or whatever) we want.

For us, boring people, Halloween it’s a lame excuse to get wasted, so we simply avoid all the fuzz and stay in the house receiving the trick-or-treaters and reward them with candy.
What we didn’t took into notice, when signing us up into the building’s list, was that you have to cover a 10 hour shift of: door bell ringing-kids/parents receiving-candy giving-holding the “beast” (our 12lb dog)-costume congratulating-door closing process… non-stop.
At the same time, I was cooking Tacos for dinner, a tedious process of a meal that my non-existent gall-bladder doesn’t let me enjoy, so it was a sacrifice to even stand in front of the stove (while salivating over the chicken) and don’t taste the results of my amazing seasoning (pardon my boasting)… 10 hours of running between the door and the kitchen: controlling my cooking, controlling the candy… and I didn’t even got rewarded with a double-decker.

So unfair!

When 4 pm arrived, I was exhausted… a truck must have run me over for sure, and I hadn’t even noticed; so I decided to flee for the door (accomplishing the best disappearing act in the history of Magic) and headed to Union Square to visit a friend’s Photography exposition, with the only goal in mind of avoiding (at least for a few hours) the craziness of Halloween.

B-I-G, B-I-G mistake!

Union Square is the central station for the Halloween parade every year, so without even noticing, I sank even more into the heart of the ‘wackos’ that think that a bloody costume is AWESOME! (Yuck… can you hear me gagging?).
I attempted to get out of the subway and walk to my destination, trying not to lash-out to every person that bumped my shoulder while walking in the opposite direction (that’s the reason I hate shopping in stores)… and not succeeding.
10 paces
Creepy people pushing me around.
12 paces
Ugly smells all over the place.
14 paces
I almost fell over a Zombie on a stop light
… And there I was, heading the other way…
14 paces (in retrocession) later, I was safely concealed into the subway, heading home and plotting for an explanation to give to my husband for the reason that I left the ‘Candy-Fort’ unmanned:

- Dear, I went to buy bread… to Little Italy... Why that far you ask? … Always the best for you, my sweet-pea (all said in a soft, warm voice)

Needless to say that by the end of the day, I was cranky and hungry… cheese tacos are a lame substitution of the real stuffed ones.

YO QUIERO TACO… NO BELL
YO QUIERO TACO A "LA MOI"