Perhaps the most devastating aspect of The Great Deprivation of 2008 was my tearful forfeiture of coffee. I'm a busy, make that manic, girl with a daily to-do list that would make you cry, but I always counted on my 92 ounce tumbler of coffee to get me started each morning, and then one or two more venti Americanos to keep me cruising at 100mph into the night. My palate is a bit of a sissy, so I require lots of milk to get these babies down the old gullet. Herein lies the problem. I'm newly allergic to dairy, as well as everything on God's earth that is not grass. My friends, and you know who you are, searched high and low for a suitable milk replacement, but everything was shit. (As well as a sissy, my palate is also a bitch.) Thus, I ultimately retired my trusty old Krups espresso machine, and began the painful, murderous process of driving by Starbucks every six blocks, whilst knowing myself to be divided from my Americanos forever, lest I essentially die, on the toilet.
I've been off coffee for four months. Four grueling months wherein I was shocked not to have been charged with a violent crime. The withdrawal wasn't so bad actually, but losing the ritual, and divorcing Starbucks, was agony. Spare me the helpful tips that tea is a wonderful beverage, or the oft-heard, oh-so-lamented suggestion: decaf. Blech. I don't swill that bitter nasty shit for any reason but the charge. Ultimately, my solution has been to increase my daily water intake by about a gallon, and conquer those to-do lists on sheer willpower alone.
About six weeks ago, Todd went out one Saturday morning and brought back Starbucks for everyone, including a glorious, breathtaking Americano for moi. I paused for three seconds, and then raced to find my favorite tumbler. (Well, my favorite of the remaining tumblers. Seven or so reside in B's bathtub.) I grabbed that milk and glug glug glug until it was filled to the brim. Picked me out one shiny pink straw, and sucked that puppy down in five seconds flat. There isn't a meth addict alive who wouldn't have envied that moment. So I just sort of never pointed out to Todd that I'm actually off coffee, and every Saturday he brings them home. Surprisingly, my stomach hasn't punished me at all for the milk, but due to the drop in my consumption, one coffee on Saturday morning turns me into a speeding bullet until Monday. No joke. After my Saturday coffee, I will replace the carpet myself, install a new engine in my car, paint the house, and then run errands until Salem shuts down. It's rather convenient because typically, there is some social thing or other happening Saturday night, and I get to arrive knowing my house is shining like the top of the Chrysler Building. Unfortunately there's a downside. From the moment that tepid heaven touches my lips, and for at least 48 hours, I never stop talking. Ever. Often I spend Saturday nights at B's, and I started noticing there might be a problem when she would look at me at 3:45am and say, "Chey, you haaave to shut up." Every time. Then I began compiling memories of various friends saying, "slow down," when I would talk to them. (Except Gabrielle, who can keep up with my aggravating auctioneer mode.) I try to rattle off the day's best and worst to Todd, who instantly becomes so exhausted by my words he has no choice but to feign deafness. Last night, I was chatting with my mom, about nothing in particular. Neither of us is a huge phone talker, but this conversation was sailing along particularly smoothly, and I realized I must have mesmerized her with my brilliant anecdotes and astoundingly clear observations about life, cleaning, kids, and my Saturday coffee. I explained my magical Saturdays, and how I am Hercules, and how I help people, and achieve the impossible, but that, well, I do talk a lot.
"Oh my God Cheyenne, is that what's wrong with you?"
"Honey I love you and I'm glad you're feeling good but you haven't stopped talking for two hours and I just...I just didn't know what to do."
(Sheepish) "Oh,um,yeah,that'swhatIwastellingyouabout.Sorry,er,um,yeah.Sothat'sit.If youneedsomething,heavylifting,callmeSaturdaymornings,butifyouwanttounwindlater,avoid meatallcosts.SorryMom."
"That's okay Honey, it was just..really extreme and you weren't really saying anything and, maybe have a smaller coffee?"
"Okay Chey, but be careful, don't drive too fast."
(What mothers don't know won't hurt them.)
So yeah, Saturday mornings, gooood, Saturday nights, you'd better be a good listener, or have duct tape. (I won't be offended, and it might get rid of some of those hairs on my upper lip.)
Fortunately for you, it's Sunday night and I'm all worn out, so I'll bid you adieu and merely operate at my usual wattage until Saturday. I understand your reluctance to call, so feel free to text anytime.