Closet Chaos

I was rummaging through my closet this morning and I realized I have 3 sizes of clothing in there. Realization is actually an understatement. More like mortification. So what do I get rid of?

 I don’t have A LOT of clothes, just many sizes of clothes. Clearly the smallest size will not fit me at this moment. The medium size fits a little snug but I gather that in 2 weeks time it fit like a glove (10 lbs. down so far). The largest size…well…definitely not fitting at all. What do I do? Toss it all? I get nervous because what if I gain weight? What if I blow up like a balloon? I’ll need a bigger size. Such a dilemma.

All the clothes I own are timeless. I don’t do trendy. Trendy is for people who have nothing better to do than buying clothes. I have work clothes, play clothes, dress up clothes and gig clothes. I have a lot of black. Not only does it make me look a bit thinner, but also it goes with everything. Very convenient.

And then there are the shoes. Last year I gave away approximately 45 pairs of shoes. Heels, flats, sandals, boots. It was liberating. Let’s face it…I’m not saving the dyed-to-match heels. The dress went to rummage years ago. Shoes are easy. I know my size. It stays the same.

And the bags. I love bags. I have many. Probably too many. Shoulder bags, cross body bags, totes, clutches. Bags are fun. I could build a whole new wing on my house just to store my bags and luggage. And cosmetic bags. I have a lot of those too. One size fits all.

It’s really not what’s in my closet, but how my closet is structured. I need an architect to redesign the chaos. I’ve unloaded the unnecessary items. Now I need to create a user-friendly space.

Anyone want to redo my closet? I can’t pay you but I’ll make you the best cup of cappuccino ever!

This Old House

Ever since I was a little kid, I’ve loved old houses. We traveled a lot by car and many times Dad would take the back roads. Mom would always point out the old houses. My favorites were the Victorians. Queen Anne Victorians and Painted Lady Victorians. I promised myself that someday in my lifetime I would own a house like that.

Fast forward to 1991. We closed on an 1888 Queen Anne Victorian with a two story carriage house. Now that I look back, the charm of it kind of overshadowed the massive amount of work this house would need. Ever see the Money Pit? Now you know.

Our house was divided at some point in 1941-1942. The renovations included removing multiple fireplaces, a grand staircase, a back staircase, wrap around front porch and detailed woodwork. I spent several years researching the history of our house and came up with some really interesting tidbits. Could not find any original house plans, so I read up on Victorian design and managed to piece it together. Yeah. Someone made a mess of this once beautiful grand Victorian.

We rent out the top two floors which isn’t terrible. I don’t really need 14 rooms. We’ve done a lot of work in both apartments. Which leaves the shoemaker’s children.

Every room in our part of house needs renovation. From floor to ceiling. Paint, woodwork, you name it. I have electrical outlets that don’t work. I have a closet door that has warped so badly I can’t open it all the way. Wallpaper in my bedroom from the 1940’s. It sounds charming I know. It’s not. Trust me.

People who first enter my home comment how delightful it is. Wow, they exclaim. Look at all the windows and you have a tower (home of the baby grand). I want to tell them don’t look too hard. Don’t look at the peeling wallpaper, the window shades from the last century, the paint chipping on the ceiling. For the past 20 years I’ve called it a “house in progress” knowing full well things may stay the way they are for the next 20 years or so.

I have to say, the outside of the house is pretty cool. Well, half cool at least. I really wanted a painted lady kind of look. I had the painters do it up in pale yellow, sea foam green and light violet. I was also going for a dark violet for the intricate details on the tower but the painters flipped out on me. Ok, ok. I’m good with three colors. So coming down the street you see a house that looks like a fairy tale. At least half a house. We ran out of funds.

Sometimes I think about moving into a newly built condo. Fresh paint. No cracks in the walls. Then I think again. I’ve always loved Victorian homes. Guess we’ll keep this old house for a while longer.

Who knows? Maybe we’ll get around to painting the other half.

Phobia # 2

In my last post I wrote about my fear of down. We all have fears. Some people are afraid of public speaking. Others of dentist visits. Spiders. Small spaces. There are lots of phobias out there. Some are minor and some are worthy of multiple therapist visits.

I have an unusual fear. The fear of not being able to find a parking space. OK…get back up on your chair and stop laughing. It’s true. When I have to be somewhere at a certain time and I am at a loss for finding a space that isn’t two states away I start to panic a little. OK. A lot. The stress mounts. I start to sweat a little. Then I start swearing like you don’t know. And I pound on the steering wheel a lot. It gets ugly.

The first thing I ask someone when I have to go somewhere new: is there parking? I’ll look on google to see if there are public parking lots when I go to a new restaurant, store, etc. I’ll take the T (Boston’s subway system) when I go into town to avoid dealing with the parking situation.

Not only do I fear myself not finding a space, but when someone else is driving I also worry that they won’t be able to find a space. The worst is when we have gigs and have to park miles away after we unload the gear. Ok, maybe not miles, but still. It’s jangles my nerves. I can sing to an audience of thousands. Love it. No fear. But finding a parking space near the venue? It’s torture.

I love places where you don’t need a car to function. New York City is a perfect example. Don’t feel like walking? Cabs, subways and buses. Venice, Italy is another more than perfect example. No cars period. The only form of transportation is by foot or boat (unless you live on the Lido and then there’s limited public parking anyway). Water buses or vaporetti as they’re called in Italian. Don’t feel like walking from one end of Venice to the other? Hop on a vaporetto and cruise the grand canal. No parking involved. 

As long as there are cars and city streets I will never overcome this fear. Valet parking is out of the question. I drive a stick. End of story. I guess the next best thing is to hire a driver.

Anyone up for the challenge??

No Down, Please

I have this incredible fear of falling. Heights do not scare me. Speed does not scare me. Walking down a flight of stairs is, for me, scarier than having a root canal. I know. I’ve had a root canal. Piece of cake.

I don’t know when this all started. All I know is that it’s getting worse as I get older. Let’s face it. I’m no spring chicken. I used to wear stilettos. Now I wear ballet flats. Or stacked heel boots. Still fashionable in my footwear, but at 5’2” I could use a little more height. I have this vision of me tumbling down the basement stairs head first into the basket of laundry I’m carrying.

It’s not that I’m clumsy. Actually, I used to dance with an Israeli folkdance troupe. We did lifts, jumps, spins. Barefoot. I have videos if you don’t believe me.

I have no issues with climbing. It’s the down part that kind of freaks me out. Roller coasters? Uh, no. Ice skating? No. Falling on ice is the worst. As I’ve said before-if I have to walk on ice, I need to plan extra time in my schedule to get from point A to point B. Even if it’s 10 feet away.

Prime example: we were in Mexico, specifically the ruins at Tulum. I had a blast climbing all the way to the top to look out at the sea. Beautiful. Then I realized I would have to get down because of course…what goes up, must come down. Well folks, I just sat right down and went step by step on my ass. Not the most graceful way of doing it, but hey, I’m here to tell the story, aren’t I?

These days I plan my routes carefully. I’ll walk an extra few minutes to avoid going down stairs or a hill. My band mates know to be uber patient with me when there are stairs involved. I need to go slow. Even climbing off the stage can result in a panic induced moment. Railings are my safety net. I’ve been known to hold onto walls when there are no railings in sight.

I don’t know if I’ll ever get over my fear of down. But as long as there’s an alternate way of getting down, I’ll climb all the way up.

Alps anyone?

Cocoa and Cashmere

This morning when I looked out the window there was snow. Hardly unusual as this is January in New England. I guess we’ve been lucky. So far no major nor’easters.

When I was a kid I absolutely loved snowstorms. Mom would wake us up to tell us there was no school and we could snuggle back down under the quilt. Later in the day we would go outside to play and to help Dad shovel (he also had the day off, being a teacher himself) No snowblowers back then. When we were just short of frostbite, we’d go back inside to hot steaming cups of cocoa. With marshmallows (I hate marshmallows-just saying). We kids had it easy.

These days I really dislike snow. It’s beautiful, I know. Beautiful to watch. Beautiful to see the still whiteness of it all. Beautiful until you have to go out and deal with the digging, scraping and general movement of the massive drifts. Snowblowers are amazing. What is not amazing is when you have completely cleaned the driveway and the plow comes by pushing it all back into the bottom of the driveway. And now you are late for work.

And then there’s the ice thing. I absolutely hate walking on ice. I have this horrible fear of slipping and falling. I’ve done it. It’s embarrassing. It takes five seconds to walk from my back door to my car. On ice it could take ten. Minutes. OK, now I’m REALLY late for work.

Vermont is different. Somehow, when I go to Vermont, the snow doesn’t bother me. I can walk on it. It’s not the same snow we have in Boston. Really. Or maybe it’s just that the snowplow guys are pros. And why is it that the snow in Vermont doesn’t get all gross and dirty?

One full day after it snows here, the white becomes grey, ugly up to the knees slush.

So you say, why don’t I just pull up stakes and move to a no snow state? Well. It’s the seasons. We all know that autumn in New England is spectacular. And there’s something about cashmere sweaters, hot cider and down comforters. Winter in New England is ok by me.

As long as there’s no snow!

The Art of Not Packing Lightly

I just love to travel. Don’t you? Travel should be my middle name. I haven’t been to half the places I want to see, but I can still think about it. Anticipating a trip is so much fun. And then there’s the packing.

Oh, the packing. I think I have my maternal grandmother’s packing genes. She traveled a lot. All over the place. North America, South America, Central America, Europe, the Far East, the Middle East, Iceland. Yes, the woman got around. And she didn’t pack light. But she managed to take just one suitcase and a carry-on. And those were the days before strict airline rules and regs. Gram knew how to pack a suitcase. She also managed to schlep back gifts for all of us from wherever she traveled.

Traveling by car is a no-brainer: you just toss in what ever you need. Easy. No weighing, no measuring. No fuss. Traveling by air is another story.

I wouldn’t say that I’m a frequent flyer, but I do manage to hop on a plane or two every three to four months. When I first started flying back and forth to Italy I was taking a honking huge suitcase and a rather large carry-on, plus an oversized tote bag. Hey, I was traveling across the big pond. I was sure I would need everything and then some. Wrong. Now I know why the airlines have strict rules about what you bring on the plane. It’s my fault. Sorry.

I have since condensed it (7 years later) to a carry-on sized suitcase, a smaller carry-on and a honking huge tote bag. Ok, ok. Come on. I still need certain things and besides, these days with all the electronics: laptop, laptop charger, several cell phones and chargers, ipod and charger and European adapters, well, you get the idea. Everyone has an electronics bag. I know. I’ve seen it. I work in an airport, remember?

In one tiny suitcase I have managed to squeeze in 2-3 weeks worth of clothes, shoes and cosmetics. Not to mention extraneous paraphernalia: music, microphones, gifts. Lots of gifts. And this year’s trips will include all the packaged foods for this diet I’m on. I know, I know. I’m going to Italy and not eating pasta or pizza. So sue me.

I usually start packing for an overseas trip the day before I leave. Yes. Really. I’ve done it so many times that now it’s a piece of cake. Traveling for a weekend trip to see my mother in Florida (I hate Florida) takes a bit more thought. I don’t like to check any bags, so I really need to think about what I take.

Then there is the line at security. As an employee I can jump the line, skip ahead and go through without removing my shoes providing they don’t sound the alarm. As a passenger I have to wait in line like everyone else. I don’t mind. What I do mind are the people who still think they can carry in bottles of water or whatever. Stop it people. You create a traffic jam. Stop arguing with TSA and just toss the contraband in the conveniently located trash barrels. There are signs everywhere telling you what you cannot bring on board. Illiteracy is not an excuse. There are pictures.

Unless you are first class or business, or you have a small child or you need assistance boarding, you need to wait until they call your row. They usually board from the rear forward. There is a mass surge to board the plane. Regardless of where they are sitting, people are pushing ahead. Fine by me. You want to sit an extra 45 minutes longer? Knock yourself out. I calmly go when my row is called (I’m such a good girl) and stow my stuff in the overhead, take drugs, put on my headphones and sleep. Sometimes I’m asleep before we leave the ground. Sometimes I miss the gourmet meals. No great loss. Don’t wake me please.

Seven hours later we arrive and before the plane even comes to a full stop everyone is grabbing their bags and heading for the exit, talking a mile a minute on their phones. Meanwhile the exit door is still closed. So sit down. Relax. You’re not going anywhere yet. And when you do, remember to thank the flight crew.

I love to travel. When I arrive back home, I’m already planning the next trip. Before my bags are emptied. Anticipation is everything. Let’s start packing!

 

Put It In The Circular File

There’s a reality show on TV called Hoarders. I’ve never seen it but my friend Cathy tells me about it all the time. It scares me to think how easy it is to save junk that you really don’t need but can’t bear to throw out. Memories, nostalgia and just plain laziness are a big factor here.

Probably the best way to avoid hoarding stuff is to move frequently. Unfortunately this is not always feasible. Or affordable. And so…to the trash it goes.

I’ve been reevaluating my closet situation. And cabinets. And drawers. It’s simply amazing how much crap I own that I really don’t need. The thing is: if I’m not using it or planning to use it, why should I save it? Because I might use it someday? But so far I haven’t. I can save it for a special occasion. Or give it to my grandchildren. What grandchildren? I have a 21 year old son in college and unless he’s been hiding something from me, grandchildren are not in my events calendar.

So what to do with all the stuff? I suppose I could give some things away. Maybe re-gift. That’s kind of tacky though. Sell it on ebay? Too much of a pain in the butt. Yard sale? No. I don’t have the patience to haul it all back in when it doesn’t get sold. I don’t want to be the old lady with no room to walk in her house due to all the extraneous junk blocking the hallways.

OK…it’s not really that bad, but I do need to unload stuff. I’m not half as bad as my husband who hates to throw ANYTHING out. Sneaking a bag of trash out of the house is a fun way to spend a Saturday evening. Ok, quick…he’s not looking…throw out four pairs of shoes. Hurry.

Now I know what retirement is for. To evaluate all the things you’ve amassed over a lifetime. And then try to figure out what to do with it all. Someday I’ll retire and hopefully by then I will have de-cluttered the closets, cabinets and drawers.

Until that time, I will make full use of the circular file. Don’t tell my husband.

When I Grow Up I Want to Be A Writer

I’ve often thought about writing a book. A memoir perhaps. Everyone is writing memoirs these days. Every time you turn around there’s a new biography on the shelf.

I can understand writing a memoir if you’ve lived a long, interesting, productive life. I’m certainly at the age where I can do this. Would anyone read it? Maybe. Maybe not. What blows me away are the people, certain celebrities, who feel the need to either write or have a biography written for them. OK, some are definitely worth reading. Especially the rock star bios. They are all the same: learned to play guitar when I was ten, formed a band and practiced in my garage, got some gigs, got some more gigs, started doing drugs, got a record deal, signed with a producer, did more drugs, went to rehab, got out of rehab, went on tour, broke up with the band, went back on drugs, started a new band…the cycle continues. Old rock stars never die. They play gigs at country fairs or get a part in Pirates of the Caribbean.

And I love the bios of teeny bopper celebs. These kids are barely out of Pampers and they have a memoir already. And this one had a nervous breakdown and that one had to be hospitalized due to exhaustion. Tsk, tsk. Such a difficult life. Worthy of a $24.95 hard cover. Are you kidding me?? Who reads this stuff? I know. Other teeny boppers who want to be just like them.

I’ve actually read some really good memoirs. Not necessarily by super famous people. Just ordinary folk like you and I. Some were inspirational and some were laugh out loud hilarious. Everybody has a story to tell.  Even me.

After all. Isn’t that what this blog is all about?

Mommyisms

When I was a kid, my mother used to say to me, “Make sure you wear underwear that have no holes in it, so if God-forbid, you are hit by a truck crossing the street, the emergency room people won’t see torn underwear.” Now that I think about it, if I HAD been hit by a truck, there would have been more to think about than holes in my underwear. More like holes in my body.

Some of the things we were told as a kid just don’t seem to make sense. The logic of it is a bit skewed. Like when you are at the beach or pool and you’ve just had lunch and you’ve been told you can’t go swimming for at least a half hour. I had these visions of sinking like a lead weight if I even dared put a toe in the water. I understand that after a large meal, any strenuous exercise can give you a cramp. But a tuna fish sandwich? With beach sand in it? Oh that gritty memory. It pains my teeth.

I’ve passed things down to my own child: don’t stand with your face up next to the microwave; always wash your face before you go to bed (my Mom told me that too) and here’s the best one- don’t leave the game system cables lying on the floor because if I trip and break a body part, you are going to be grounded for life.

Now that my child is of legal age, things haven’t changed all that much. He questions authority constantly (I probably did the same when I was his age…) and cannot understand when I get upset over the little things such as him dropping his boat-sized sneakers in the middle of the dining room. Fortunately for me, I’ve caught myself before falling headfirst into the china cabinet.

And the clean plate club. Do any of you remember that? The dreaded liver and onions. Just the thought of it made me gag. “Finish the food on your plate and you’ll be in the clean plate club” OR “There are starving children in China. Finish your dinner.”  Starving children in China?? What does that have to do with liver and onions? The one time I said, “fine, pack it up and send it to them” I was sent to bed without dinner only to find it on my plate for breakfast. Lucky for me the school bus didn’t wait for children who didn’t eat their dinners for breakfast. The dreaded meal ended up in the trash. I’m sure the poor starving children in China thanked me profusely.

Every culture has their own Mommyisms. But when you boil it down, it really is all the same, isn’t it? We love our kids. We want the best of everything for them. Even if it means wearing underwear with no holes in it.

My Favorite Four Letter Word

I love a good sale. Who doesn’t? Sifting through the racks of last season’s rags is the best kind of therapy. Some call it retail therapy. The only thing that beats it is a really good pizza. And you can even find sales on that as well.

It’s January. All the winter stuff is going on sale. The holidays are over and now it’s time for the pros to hit the malls. As any serious shopper knows, you must check out the sales online before you get into the car. Print out those coupons. The smart cookie knows to get on those mailing lists. What? You don’t want to give out your e-mail? Why? Spam? Not if you know how to do it right. Set yourself up with a separate e-mail for store coupons and such. I have to laugh when I hear people say, “Oh no, I can NEVER give out MY e-mail.” Do you really think anyone gives a rat’s patoot about YOUR e-mail? Do you think they’re going to break into YOUR house and steal YOUR TV? Please.

My new favorite thing is to shop the sales online and purchase online. It gives me great satisfaction to shop at some weird hour of the day (or night). I know it’s not always easy to find the right size, fit, etc. when you shop online but you can always return it. One company I simply love, love, love is Zappos. No shipping fees and no return fees. How great is that? The last five pairs of shoes I bought were from Zappos. And yes, they do have sales. And yes, the selection is unbelievable.

Sales are everywhere this time of year. My friend Cathy told me yesterday that Walmart was having a big sale. You all know how I feel about that. If you don’t, start reading December’s posts. We did a little shopping at a cosmetics counter yesterday (no, not Walmart…get that right out of your head). It was extremely gratifying. Yes, we shopped the sale.

Still waiting for the BIG sale to hit. That would be airfare. Doesn’t look like it’s happening anytime soon. I guess what I save on clothes and shoes, I can apply to airfare and travel expenses.

See you at the mall!

Food, Food, Food and Pizza

There are those that live to eat and those who eat to live (that may be grammatically incorrect). I am definitely in the former category. Eating a stalk of celery does not a dinner make.

As I mentioned in my first post, I have been on every diet and eating plan since I was five years old. Seriously. I’ve probably gained and lost 300 pounds in my lifetime so far. Putting it on, taking it off, putting it on, taking it off. I think they call that yo-yo dieting. I call it totally-enjoying-food-that-I don’t-know-when-to-stop. Let’s face it. I am a total foodie.

Now to set matters straight: I don’t do a lot of junk food and I rarely eat fast foods unless it’s the only option when I’m on a road trip. In that case I go for the least offensive menu item-a salad. I do like the occasional potato chip and I love movie popcorn.

For the most part I eat healthy. I like whole grains and I love greens. Salad is a favorite. My friend Cathy is smacking her head at that one. I’m not a vegetarian by any means and one of my fav meals is steak tips and a honkin’ huge baked potato. With a side salad of course.

My all time favorite food is PIZZA. I could eat it everyday. I just love it. Actually, there was a time last summer when I DID eat it every day. Yes, you guessed. I was in Italy.

The pizza in Northern Italy is very different than the pizza in, say, New York or Boston. (New York pizza is my favorite.) I do, however, love the pizza in Trieste.

Actually, I’m not all that picky. I’ll even eat a frozen or chain pizza. I just love that combination of cheese and sauce and crust. To me, it’s like manna. If I had been wandering the desert for 40 years and there was pizza? Oh, baby. I would have put down stakes and opened a pizzeria. Mama Ellen’s Desert Pizzeria. Sit down or take out.

I’m not terribly fussy when it comes to food. I have my dislikes: brownies, marshmallows, chocolate chip cookies. I know, I know. But hey, I’d rather have a plate of mashed potatoes than a cookie. I love ethnic foods: Greek, Turkish, Chinese, Japanese, Italian (other than pizza), Indian, Thai…you get the idea. I also love good old American burgers and fries. Are you getting hungry yet? And fish. I love fish. One my bandmates can’t tolerate fish. He won’t even sit next to someone eating fish or seafood. But that’s another story.

And so, it’s January. I started a new eating plan as of January 2. Technically it’s not called a “diet”. OK. To me, it’s still a diet. It’s the strictest plan I’ve ever done. It’s scary strict. Yes, in less than a week I’ve lost a few pounds. What am I eating? Not much. Packaged foods except for one meal a day where I can have veggies and some protein (no cheese). Are the packaged meals tasty? No, not really. Are the packaged meals convenient? Extremely. Can I do this for a year? Yes, I can. Don’t ask me to go out for lunch. Or dinner. At least not yet.

I have a personal coach working with me. It’s like being a celebrity. We talk almost every day and I can call him anytime to vent. He also happens to be one of my closest friends. This part is nice.

The week before I started this, I went all out. I didn’t think points, calories, servings. Nada. I just ate whatever I wanted. Interestingly enough, I ate less than I would normally eat. Go figure.

I know that eventually I will be able to have pizza again. One slice, occasionally. Difficult concept right now. And milk in my coffee. Foamed milk. I miss that.

In the meantime, I’ll keep looking at the skinny jeans hanging in my closet. When I can finally squeeze into them there will be a celebration like you don’t know. It will definitely involve a trip to Sephora. And you thought I was going to say champagne. Hah!

Salad anyone?

Real Time or Sammy Time?

I think I’m a pretty organized person. For a musician, that is. Just don’t look in my bedroom closet. It ain’t pretty. Most of my band mates are not as organized as I am. In fact most of the musicians I know are a disorganized mess. Except the really famous ones. They have someone picking up after them, making their travel arrangements, organizing their gigs. Yeah. That’s not happening here.

I play in two bands in Trieste, Italy. Yes, the commute is a killer. But they also come to Boston because fair is fair. I love my band mates. They are family. You know how it is with family. Sometimes you want to smack them over the head with a 2X4.

Because they are Italian, everything is very last-minute-laid-back-don’t worry about it. It makes me crazy. So guys…what exactly are we playing at tonight’s gig? Don’t know…we’ll figure it out when we get there. This is where Miss Organization steps in. OK…I’LL do the set list. And of course we never end up following it anyway. But that’s ok.

Rehearsals are a joy to behold. Scheduled for, let’s say, 11 AM. Do we ever start on time? An hour later we’re still waiting for the last one to stroll in the door of the rehearsal space. After much screaming and carrying on in a dialect I still can’t understand, we practice. Less than an hour later we need to take a break. What? I’m just getting my vocals warmed up and we’re taking a break? Really? After maybe another half hour we’re done. Why? Because now it’s time for lunch. Lunch is sacred.

For the most part, we know what we’re doing. At least I do. The one person I work most closely with is my keyboard player. Sammy is an incredible musician and we’ve been playing together for many years. Musically, our brain waves are in total sync. We learn from each other. He is all about the music. I’m all about being organized so we can BE all about the music. I’ve trained him well. He is mostly on time these days. Progress is a wonderful thing!

We toured in Japan. Talk about organization. Whoa. Minute to minute scheduling. I was in heaven. The rest of the band kind of freaked out a little. Four Italians and one American in Tokyo. And who do you think brought the travel guides? After all, we had some down time between rehearsals and gigs. Of course we had to try the local delicacies. A truly gastronomic event. My bandmates and I have very different views on what constitutes great food. We have heated discussions about my total dislike of fast food. More about this another time. It gives me heartburn.

I guess our performance on stage really cancels out the frustration of disorganization. We love being together. Even if we fight constantly. Isn’t that what families do?

Oh..and Sammy? I’ll be there at the airport on March 2. Will you pick me up real time or Sammy time?

Cup O' Joe: My Love Affair With Coffee

I love coffee. I can’t imagine starting my day without a fresh brewed cup. Yes, I know that the caffeine boost is a major bonus but I really love the taste. I am, however, a bit of a coffee snob. You knew that was coming, didn’t you?

I’m a bit picky. I don’t do Dunks. To me, their coffee tastes like a brown crayon dipped in water. Starbucks is passable in an emergency. The honest truth is that I make really good coffee at home. It’s like an art form.

I use a little espresso pot. It’s adorable. I have several in different sizes. I use Italian espresso and in the mornings I foam some milk to make a cappuccino. It’s simply perfect.

Of course the best place to drink espresso is in Italy. I do that. A lot. I spend a good deal of time in Trieste (more about that coming in another post) and the coffee there is so perfect it can bring tears to your eyes. No joke. Italians take their java really seriously. Coffee is an integral part of their day. If you go out for the coffee at your neighborhood bar, you can catch up on all the latest news, gossip and sports of course. You order your choice of coffee, add sugar and stir for about five minutes while standing at the bar. Then you slug it down like a shot of whiskey. It’s amazing. I’m always the last one to finish. I have this thing about savoring my cup. If you sit down at a little table, they’ll bring you biscotti (yummy little cookies) and sometimes a little bite of chocolate. My favorite neighborhood bar is owned by a guy named Bruno. He makes a wicked good cappuccino. Even if I’m not stopping in I’ll wave and shout out, “Ciau, Bruno! Come xe?” (Triestino for hey, Bruno, how’s it going?)

I think all those fancy espresso machines are really cool. They also have an expensive price tag. You can buy me one if you like. In the meantime I’ll stick to my little stovetop espresso pot.

Come on over. I’ll make you the best cappuccino ever. You’ll want seconds. Me and my joe. A love affair.