I’m addicted to Starbucks. I love my coffee but it absolutely kills me that I spend almost $4.50 every single day on my quad grande non-fat three equal latte. The fact remains that I can’t seem to give it up either.
Believe me, I’ve tried to like Dunkin’ Donuts or McDonald’s but they’re too weak. I also have tried to brew my own to no avail either. I’ve tried different coffee brands, different grinds and even different coffee pots. In my quest to either replicate my Starbucks or find a suitable alternative, I’ve picked up enough coffee makers to open Tracy’s Coffee Bar. I counted a Gevalia pot that came free with a trial subscription to their coffee of the month club. I also have both a Bodum electric French press and a manual French press. I have my original Mister Coffee 12-cup pot and a large party size 48-cup pot. I have a Kerieg single cup coffee maker and a Starbucks single to-go-cup coffee maker, and my Krups 12 cup coffee maker with a warming carafe. Not to mention the old espresso maker parked in the back of the pantry we got as a wedding gift. None of these seem to satisfy me.
For Hanukkah, our friend bought us an espresso maker. At first, I loved it. It does make perfect foam and is easy enough to use, but unless I invest in a espresso maker that very expensive, I’m never going to get the right amount of pressure to brew the perfect cup. That sits on the counter looking pretty and unused now.
Sometimes I wonder if Starbucks includes just the tiniest bit of crack in their blend. That would explain my addiction. It's like the yummiest tasting crack in a cup, every so slightly sweetened. It’s not the caffeine because I can drink four shots and go right to bed afterward. It’s just the flavor. I just love the dark, rich, almost burned taste. It wouldn’t be so bad if I at least limited myself to the morning commute cup. Now, however, in the afternoons, I’m driving over for a mid-day iced drink too.
I’ve even got Maverick hooked. The guy never even drank coffee until he shacked up with me. Plus, I think I’m creating a monster in my five-year old. Surprisingly, Camryn loves Starbucks too. Most of my adult friends can’t stomach my four-shot drink but Camryn would drink it all if I let her. For now, I only let her have her favorite vanilla milk. Between the three of us, we have a family fortune going down the drain to one benefactor. We stopped calling it Starbucks and refer to it lovingly as FourBucks. Maybe calling it more than three thousand a year bucks would be more appropriate.
I’d be much happier if my gym knew me by name instead of all the baristas who ask if I’m having “the usual” when I walk in. For Maverick, they special order his favorite yogurt. I even have my very own Starbucks Black card, which saves me 10% on every drink. The card makes me feel special, like my own American Express Black Card for coffee drinkers, though not as many perks. It would be great if it also had perks like my own personal concierge, or a home barista would be nice. I think I’ll submit that idea to Starbucks. Maybe I should run over there now and pitch my suggestion. While I’m at it, I might as well pick up an afternoon iced coffee too. And the vicious cycle of addiction continues…
Showing posts with label Starbucks. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Starbucks. Show all posts
Monday, June 22, 2009
Monday, November 17, 2008
thank god it's monday because my weekend was exhausting!
Why is it that on the weekends that I don' t have any plans "scheduled" I seem to be busier than ever? After a crazy-ridiculous week of work and deadlines and spreadsheets and meetings, I was looking forward to a little R & R. No plans except for a kids birthday party on Sunday, no sweat. I thought I'd have a leisurely Saturday, go for my morning run, cook some breakfast, enjoy the cool weather, spend time with the kids...ya know, a lot of nothing on a Saturday. Sunday, I anticipated reading the newspaper, enjoying bagels delivered by my husband, with Starbucks of course, a quick jaunt to the birthday party and time to plan a delicious, leisurely Sunday night family dinner.
What happened exactly was that I did all of that and fifty-five zillion other things in between. Six loads of laundry, wipe down the baseboards, help Maverick clean the garage, run errands, prepare sixteen meals, organize the girls' closets, make lists of lists of things I need to get done, and a host of other essential things that were not scheduled on the initial agenda.
I may be a fanatic for a clean glass kitchen table, but I do not exaggerate by telling you I wiped that table down thirty-two times in one weekend. Once after an art project, again after breakfast, another time after snack, again after lunch and afternoon snack, after dinner, after dessert later and finally again after the girls were tucked away in their beds and I saw smudges I missed the first twenty times. Multiply that by two and a half days of the weekend and that quickly adds up to thirty-two.
Then there's the shoes that need to be picked up infinitely and returned to their proper place. I'm always amazed by how four people can create a pile of shoes to fit an army by the end of each day. I also have to put away eight little baggies of unfinished snacks, two dishwasher loads, a host of mail that needs to be scanned, sorted and tossed. Backpacks to be emptied and then filled again within forty-eight hours, homework to be filed and homework to start. Playdates, babysitters and carpooling arrangements to be made. Tivo'ed shows to be watched, scattered magazines to be read and recycled. Pictures to be taken, enhanced, printed, emailed and scrapbooked.
Not to mention the list of "weekend projects" that need to be executed...things that can't happen during the waking work week: windows to be washed, patios to be pressure cleaned; garages to be organized; whole closets that need to be organized, drawers that need to be cleaned, filing that needs to be filed.
And of course, in between all this, I must find time to hang out in the driveway so the kids can get fresh air and play with their friends because we live in a sick world and I can't let them out on their own like I was allowed at their age.
It's no wonder I'm so pooped when it's time to go back to work on Monday.
What happened exactly was that I did all of that and fifty-five zillion other things in between. Six loads of laundry, wipe down the baseboards, help Maverick clean the garage, run errands, prepare sixteen meals, organize the girls' closets, make lists of lists of things I need to get done, and a host of other essential things that were not scheduled on the initial agenda.
I may be a fanatic for a clean glass kitchen table, but I do not exaggerate by telling you I wiped that table down thirty-two times in one weekend. Once after an art project, again after breakfast, another time after snack, again after lunch and afternoon snack, after dinner, after dessert later and finally again after the girls were tucked away in their beds and I saw smudges I missed the first twenty times. Multiply that by two and a half days of the weekend and that quickly adds up to thirty-two.
Then there's the shoes that need to be picked up infinitely and returned to their proper place. I'm always amazed by how four people can create a pile of shoes to fit an army by the end of each day. I also have to put away eight little baggies of unfinished snacks, two dishwasher loads, a host of mail that needs to be scanned, sorted and tossed. Backpacks to be emptied and then filled again within forty-eight hours, homework to be filed and homework to start. Playdates, babysitters and carpooling arrangements to be made. Tivo'ed shows to be watched, scattered magazines to be read and recycled. Pictures to be taken, enhanced, printed, emailed and scrapbooked.
Not to mention the list of "weekend projects" that need to be executed...things that can't happen during the waking work week: windows to be washed, patios to be pressure cleaned; garages to be organized; whole closets that need to be organized, drawers that need to be cleaned, filing that needs to be filed.
And of course, in between all this, I must find time to hang out in the driveway so the kids can get fresh air and play with their friends because we live in a sick world and I can't let them out on their own like I was allowed at their age.
It's no wonder I'm so pooped when it's time to go back to work on Monday.
Friday, August 15, 2008
Just because it's a convenient time to call...
I'm in a mood right now, so bear with me. I have a simple statement to make about the phone and it goes a little something like this: Just because it's a convenient time for you to call, doesn't mean it's a convenient time for me to answer.
I get such shit from my friends because I'm terrible with the phone. That's me. Accept me, please, warts and all. I commute two hours a day and that's my phone time. Maverick will tell ya my cell phone bill is through the roof and I could support my shoe habit if I only laid off the cell.
I love to talk on the phone, really, but only between the hours of getting to work and driving home from work. So if you can't catch me then...try texting me.
Yes, sometimes I do hear you on my answering machine, calling out for me: "Tray, I know you're there; pick up the phone." But you have to understand that by the time I walk in door after being gone for almost twelve hours, walked into the insanity that exists with two screaming kids who are thrilled to see me, I've got to go to the bathroom, I've got to get these kids to bed, I'm starving; I'm tired; Mavrick's probably complaining about something I had forgotten to do that day; there's mail to read, previously a dog to walk and feed, and well, the last thing I feel like doing is talking on the phone.
That would require me to stop all of those things above and sit down to listen to what you have to say. And I want to hear what you have to say. I don't want to give you the "uh huh, uh huh" because what kind of friend would that be?
Sometimes I do answer the phone, even when I'm busy because I feel guilty; then I rush you off in sixty seconds anyway with a plea that I'll have to call you later...So what's the point of that?
Also, there's nothing more annoying than when I do sit down to talk and I've got to listen to your screaming kids in the background. So, there's another thing: please don't call me if you can't control your kids.
I don't mind the occasional "Dear, please put your dishes in the sink after you finish your snack". I'm talking about the girlfriends who can't finish a sentence or let me get my thought out before she interrupts sixteen times to reprimand a child who's grabbing the phone out of her hand or are such out-of-control lunatics that I just can't hear you on the other end.
Seriously, whatever you called about most likely isn't that important right that minute! Can't it just wait until 7am the next morning, while I'm on my way to Starbucks?
I get such shit from my friends because I'm terrible with the phone. That's me. Accept me, please, warts and all. I commute two hours a day and that's my phone time. Maverick will tell ya my cell phone bill is through the roof and I could support my shoe habit if I only laid off the cell.
I love to talk on the phone, really, but only between the hours of getting to work and driving home from work. So if you can't catch me then...try texting me.
Yes, sometimes I do hear you on my answering machine, calling out for me: "Tray, I know you're there; pick up the phone." But you have to understand that by the time I walk in door after being gone for almost twelve hours, walked into the insanity that exists with two screaming kids who are thrilled to see me, I've got to go to the bathroom, I've got to get these kids to bed, I'm starving; I'm tired; Mavrick's probably complaining about something I had forgotten to do that day; there's mail to read, previously a dog to walk and feed, and well, the last thing I feel like doing is talking on the phone.
That would require me to stop all of those things above and sit down to listen to what you have to say. And I want to hear what you have to say. I don't want to give you the "uh huh, uh huh" because what kind of friend would that be?
Sometimes I do answer the phone, even when I'm busy because I feel guilty; then I rush you off in sixty seconds anyway with a plea that I'll have to call you later...So what's the point of that?
Also, there's nothing more annoying than when I do sit down to talk and I've got to listen to your screaming kids in the background. So, there's another thing: please don't call me if you can't control your kids.
I don't mind the occasional "Dear, please put your dishes in the sink after you finish your snack". I'm talking about the girlfriends who can't finish a sentence or let me get my thought out before she interrupts sixteen times to reprimand a child who's grabbing the phone out of her hand or are such out-of-control lunatics that I just can't hear you on the other end.
Seriously, whatever you called about most likely isn't that important right that minute! Can't it just wait until 7am the next morning, while I'm on my way to Starbucks?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)