boo voyage

I know you've all been on the edge of your seats burning with curiosity about whether or not we're going to California this weekend. I myself have been the least in the know, deferring to my mom, whose health hasn't been tip-top, and for whom even miniscule decisions can require years of internal debate. (She's a libra.) Secretly, she and I confessed a mutual desire not to tackle what feels like an insurmountable endeavor, but ultimately, you know, the kids looked up the schedule for the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk, my favourite stomping ground as a kid, and sure enough, they're open on weekends. Hooray! (Fuck.)

I'm a trouper, and I can pull some shit together yo, so I compiled a list last night, and at last count, I have roughly 885 things to do before we rip ourselves out of bed at the ass crack of dawn tomorrow and set out on the 13 hour trek to Santa Cruz. Friends, you may not quite grasp the enormity of this undertaking, so allow me to break it down:

I still have yet to recover from being sick. My stamina is pretty compromised.

My birth control pills, meant to stop my periods for good, were apparently prescribed by satan because instead, I am on my period 25 days out of each month, including now, so all this talk of the hot tub where we're staying is really pissing me off. (Yes I've heard of tampons, but this is my rant so shut the fuck up.)

I just started a new medication that has a peculiar side effect that is both uncomfortable and somewhat unsafe for driving. Meh.

My family is all Santa Cruz chic and herbal, and most of them are acupuncturists, so I don't really tell them I take 7,000mgs of the most potent chemicals on earth. I won't exactly be popping a Xanax at dinner kapiesh? I mean, they know something's up, and they're always offering to poke some needles into my temples and tell me I should be treating the endometriosis with hibiscus root and bella donna. We're all close, don't get me wrong, and some of them got thin hair, or small breasts, or the adorable propensity to say things like anemonies instead of amenities, lol. I got the crazy gene. Oh and the height of a redwood, oh and the size 12 feet, oh and the cankles, oh and the eyebrows, the goddamn eyebrows, and I'm the only fat person in the family. My older cousins, Maria and Catarina, now in their early 40's (what the hell?) are both perpetually tan, both thin, Maria is some A+ beach volleyball star, her 11 year old Max, is a local surfing champion, both their husbands are Brazilian so their kids are beautifully golden brown. So here we come, white as ghosts, me whose most extreme quality is a toss up between being nine feet tall or crazier than a shithouse rat, plus my cankles, my ma, whose passion is social justice, not Aeropostale, my son, who by all accounts is a genius, and sweet as honey, but can't keep up with growing two inches a day, whose hair is long (sigh), who reads computer magazines and talks about capture devices and ports and shit like that. Now Reilly, Reilly will fit right in. She's pure muscle, tan, with hair that doesn't quit, style that can't be rivaled, believes she is 12, even though she's eight (but she really is 12). She's got the personality, the athleticism, the sensibility, the must-have accoutrements. She's a homeschool anomaly.

Todd put us on a budget this time, to which I am not accustomed. I know that sounds spoiled, but he usually gives us more than enough. But he's very fiscally conservative and with the current economy he expects us all to do some cinching. So of course I'm worried a hundred dollar bill will escape from my wallet and fly out the window.

Did I mention I've never driven to Santa Cruz? I know there's some complicated bullshit near San Francisco because when my mom used to drive Sky and me there as kids, she would always tell us we couldn't talk in SF. And the last time I tried to navigate that bridge, my friend and I went over it nine times, lol.

My to do list would make the most manic, efficient, optimist slit her throat.

I recently got a David Cassidy haircut. I'm just sayin'.

Jacob's being released from the hospital and I feel I ought to be around to schlepp some soup bowls and make him laugh til it hurts. (His weakness? Fart noises! Try it!)

In four short hours, we'll have to pump our own gas. I'm no diva, but it's intimidating.

I'm allergic to everything but vitamins, and my family is known for eating out seven times a day. I don't want to explain the allergies because I don't want to hear that they are rooted in a weak liver, and talking too fast, and that I'm losing chi at alarming rates, etc.

I hate the beach, yes even West Cliff. My family is proud to all live on Pleasure Point, and I'm sure I'd also be excited to brandish my 400 sq. ft. house, with rent a mere $2,500/mo., if I lived there, but the proximity to West Cliff will entice everyone to go down there. I hate sand, wind, the beach, and the precarious winding sheer rock face leading to the sand. I have arthritis in my knees, and that shit is no fun. But don't tell anyone. I'm not taking some Chinese herbs and quitting coffee and using meditation. I like good old western Glucosamine.

Can I have double bitching points for being on day 19 of this period?

I can't imagine a scenario in which I will ever get to sneak a clove. (No, Gail, I quit, really. I just have them for emergencies, such as wanting one.)

Sometimes my mom and I fight on trips, and we both agreed that her recent cancer scare will ensure only lovingkindness. Let's hope.

I'm notoriously unphotogenic (stop with the false loving reassurances, it's true. Ask B. She will tilt her head to the side and smile sheepishly and say "Well? I mean...") So I will likely have no suitable pictures to blog when I get home.

We are the closest, most socially-conscious, devoted Democratic family, pretty much the west coast Kennedys, but one of my dearest uncles voted for George Bush, and that can cause friction, depending on who has a beer at the reunion BBQ. We love him, he is cherished and has the kindest, twinkling eyes, but there is really no excuse. Anyway, he just got laid off after managing a computer company for like 35 years, so maybe I'll reiterate the error of his vote, lol. And be squashed dead. (Don't forget that while I am the tallest woman, the others are mere inches behind, and the men are Goliath.)

My family is very adventure and physical-exertion oriented, and I just know Max will invite my kids to surf, or my brother Sky will want to take them on a quintuple stacked ferris wheel at the boardwalk, or someone will want to rent the 10-person version of a tandem bicycle, and try to shame me into letting them ride from Soquel to freaking Watsonville.

Finally, my entire gallon sized water bottle spilled into my purse the other day, so my current purse is a WinCo shopping bag, with the bare essentials in various pockets of a coat that has become absolutely imperative now because it has my phone, my keys, etc. Ladies, you can all appreciate how disorienting it is having no purse. I haven't checked to see if it's dry yet. In fact I have done nothing but laundry, emptied some garbage, chatted and moaned to some friends online about how this trip is going to kill me, and write this criminally tantrum-esque blog.

Perhaps in the interest of boring you all to death, I shall share my to-do list:

find bathing suits and be willing to wear one with a skirt in front of my 6 ft. tall bikini-clad cousins.

pack Rei's and my matching valentines shirts for the BBQ

make sure everyone gets his/her allowance and trip money from Todd, who thank God is home today.

rejoice over dry purse and reassemble or improvise fast.

find our travel laundry bag.

take Quinn to Borders for a new book for the road.

I was told to pack for weather ranging from low 40's to high 70's. Yea!

clogs, Mary Janes, and flip flops (but how many?)

pea coat or snow jacket/interim purse? And if pea coat, black or white?

phone charger

toiletries--don't forget new razor!

um, feminine products, the 700-pack

a case of Dasani water bottles

hair dryer and straightener

do we own a travel DVD player? (Though Q & R prefer iPods and books.)

charge camera and camcorder and iPods (update everyone's music so it's fresh.)

sort through the brilliant music Adam has given me over the years, pack favourites.

check weather report for Santa Cruz, 95062.

pillows and blankets? Really?

Mapquest to and from.

CLEAN MY ENTIRE HOUSE!

clean the hardened pill dust out of pill sorter and stock my pills.

earrings

blog for sympathy

vacuum car

car wash

get some addresses.

force Reilly into the bath, so she can wash her hair and shave the gawgeous legs she did not inherit from me.

oversee her packing so it's weather appropriate and I have final say over when it's acceptable to wear argyle knee high socks.

sift through the five garbage bags of clothes Pam passed along to me in hopes of freshening up my already new, but seemingly old in the presence of newer and exciting clothes, wardrobe. This will only take 75 hours.

check and recheck med sorter 8,000 times. Ask B to check it too.

don't forget iPods, and the cushy headphones my kids require because they don't like the inner-ear ones.

get everything ready to forceably remove my precious offspring from their beds at 5:00am, prodding them without resorting to abuse, pack our shit, pick up mom, go to Starbucks, and be on I-5 by 7:00am.

Jealous?

Anyone wanna come help me pack, dry my tears, bring me a London Fog?

Okay, only 884 things left to go...

black sabbath

In keeping with the spirit of only writing about myself and my lukewarm anecdotes, I felt the need to share this weekend's ongoing coffee ... fucked-up-ness.

By now, no one needs the backstory about how God hates me and I'm allergic to everything, including dairy, so I gave up coffee four months ago, but I still drink one on Saturday mornings so I can clean like a madman all day until I am felled by a raging panic attack right? We all know this part? Okay.

So just this past Friday evening, Reilly and I were shopping, and she looked at me and said, "Mom, tomorrow is Starbucks Saturday!" Naturally my first thought was "Thank God she still knows the days of the week," as we've been pretty slow in getting back to lessons since the holidays. But my next thought was what a sweet little tradition we've got going, and how nice it is that Todd started it, since he tends to keep his heart of gold under several layers of brick.

Each Saturday, once we greet each other, Todd will tell me what he needs to get done before running for coffee. So yesterday, I eagerly awaited the report, as I was dying to take back my house after being sick all week. Waiting... waiting...no report. Finally, I crept over to Todd, disguised as a church mouse, and meekly asked when he might be going for coffee. (You see, on Todd's list of favourite people, I fall somewhere in the neighborhood of 57th, out of 58, so I try not to be too needy, apart from the $1,000/mo. insurance I require, the $500/mo. meds I must take lest I kill someone, the $300/mo. therapy I attend in hopes of someday learning how to have one conversation that doesn't confound/offend/enrage the other person. There's also the allowance he generously gives me, the gas tank he keeps full, the car he keeps purring like a kitten, the lame-ass food I have to have in mass quantities (ie-Ramen), and the fact that he hasn't thrown my heathen ass to the curb for various crimes against humanity. So you know, I don't want to seem too entitled to my Saturday coffee.

But yesterday, he rather dryly said he wasn't going to Starbucks. "Um, wha?" He had this and that to do, and Starbucks wasn't on his route. (Correct me, but, isn't there a Starbucks on every corner of Deliverance nowhere? What routes are left in the United States that don't have that sickeningly addictive green circle peering out nearby?) Surely you can't blame me for tearing off my church mouse suit and donning the duds of a fearsome bitch scorned and denied her ever-loving caffeine! In reality I have absolutely no leg to stand on here. In fact, I have two perfectly good legs (albeit with cankles), with which I can drive to Starbucks myself, in my afore-mentioned well-running vehicle, to purchase a coffee. But, but, I don't shower before I clean, and I know if I leave the house with greasy slutwhore hair (thanks Pam!) I will get pulled over, or worse, recognized by someone who hates me. (Yes, they're out there--shocker!) So I really can't.

I moped and retaliated by doing only a cursory cleaning job. (This is pathetic and ironic because I don't clean for Todd's benefit, he thinks the house is fine and I should basically shut the fuck up [only in Christian language] and find a hobby because I'm too obsessive about cleaning. God, the nerve right?) It reminded me of a time, this makes me laugh so hard, a couple years ago, after B had gently advised me that wearing as much mascara as I did, with eyeliner, didn't help my problem with dark circles under my eyes. That less is more. So I'd started wearing mascara on my upper lashes only, and I ditched the eyeliner. I felt naked, but she swore it brightened up my face and minimized the dark circles. And I trust her. So one time when I was psychotic and living with them in Monmouth, B and I had succumbed to the stress and had ourselves a little row about something or other. The next morning, to drive my point home, and show her, I put as much mascara and eyeliner on as I could without tipping over. This was meant to hurt her deeply of course, lol. So my retribution cleaning yesterday reminded me of my mascara attack on B years before, and I had to chuckle at myself.

Wait. (Wakes from coma.) How did I get from coffee to mascara madness? Oh well, no one's forcing you to read this.

So I woke up this morning before dawn with a lot on my mind and a big day ahead and my solution to that is always to compile a list of the least-favoured, most obscure, worst household tasks, and jump up and do them. I mean, what a high, honestly. It's my meth. This morning I was definitely going to need a jolt, and I knew better than to look to Todd for heaven's sake. So I sulked all the way to kitchen to brew my own Premium Starbucks Roast Espresso, but failed to break his heart. I got the old machine brewing, and bustled around, rejoicing in the steamy hiss that marks imminent caffeine infusion. At some point I glanced over and noticed I'd forgotten to place the caraffe under the spout, so not only did 75% of my coffee end up under the floorboard, a cleaning job I loathe, but I was fairly fucked as far as caffeine went, since that was the last of our coffee. (I mean, we had more in the refrigerator, but it requires grinding, and who am I, Cinderella?) It only took 95 exaggerated sighs to pique Todd's interest. I explained what happened, and set about to pour my 1/100th of a cup of joe into a mug and add milk and swig it with all my might. In truth I filled a large cup, and its entire volume was down my gullet before I realized the milk was sour. I immediately put my head in the garbage and vomited. I hate milk, and only use it to neutralize the bitterness of coffee, so sour milk to me is barely preferable to eating feces. In the "Todd Does Have a Heart" category, he took pity upon me face-first in the garbage like some wine-o, and rushed to Starbucks to soothe my palate with the coffee he motherfucking should have gotten me in the first place, lol. (I am, of course, kidding. I am no princess.)

Okay, I've sucked down every last drop, so I'd better get moving before the gut-wrenching panic sets in. Just beware the hazards that may befall you when you break tradition. Especially if it involves me.

mama mia!

A few of you know that my dear mom, the fiercest of warriors, survivor of calamities untold, and the most loving grandmother on earth, has been nursing her left side for a couple months now. Mom is waaay not given to complaining, especially not about pain. Social injustice, yes, pain no. So it took her a while to mention that she had some inflammation and that her mobility had become limited. Mom's quite healthy, and exceedingly active, so I knew, despite her reticence, that we needed to act. The first battery of tests revealed, of course, nothing. The secondary round proved to be a bit more ominous, which I found out one fateful, heart-crushing Saturday night two weeks ago. Mom had alluded to some bad news in a text, and ultimately, after swearing me to secrecy from (every person I know, by name), from God, from myself, and anyone else she could think of, she called and explained that she received some cat scan results that pointed to ovarian cancer. I slid down the wall, holding the phone with fingers that had long gone numb, barely breathing, certain my heart would stop before she was finished reading the results. As we learned last year with my tumor, ovarian cancer has virtually no survival rate, and I just kept thinking Mom is so healthy, so young (59), so needed, so cherished, so irreplaceable, how anything happening to her would be the defining moment in my children's lives, and how would I ever get them through that? Not to mention, she is my mom. B was on her way to pick me up for our re-class celebration, and I told my mom she would surely know something was up, since I was ghost white, unable to speak, shaking. Hell, B can tell if I find a dollar on the ground, she would definitely know something was terribly amiss. Mom said I could mention "worrisome" and "test results" to B only. I offered to cancel my plans to go be with her, but the whole point of her secrecy was that she didn't want to be consoled, she didn't want sad faces, she didn't want it to be real.


So B scooped me up, immediately knew what was wrong, and assured me everything would be okay. We sped to her house to get shit-faced drunk, which I highly recommend as a temporary fix-a-flat during a cancer scare. The next day I felt slightly less stunned, and I tagged along with B and Gab shopping for treasures for their Valentines party. It was a semi-successful diversion, but I just kept thinking about Mom. Meanwhile, I was totally off-kilter all day. Forgetting things, argumentative, squirming. I knew I was making Gab feel awkward but I wasn't at liberty to explain. God it was awful. I was so scared, my blood was ice cold.

So I harboured this secret for four days, until Tuesday night when my mom texted me that her doctor declared this a misdiagnosis. This was nearly as unfathomable as the idea of cancer. My heart raced around the street a few times, and my jaw started chattering. Her doctor suspects that the actual problem is something called a dermoid. As elated as I was, I knew that any malady that ends in -moid cannot be a dignified thing. Boy was I right. I began getting texts from Mom, who was researching online, and true to form, she had me laughing almost immediately, which is no small feat when you think you're going to lose your ma.

6:00: Dermoids 98% benign but can have teeth in them! Ick! Also long luxurient hair. One site seemed to say we are born with them. So maybe that's where my long luxurient hair ended up...lol. Thanks for loving me.

6:05: And man, if the teeth are good maybe I can have them implanted where they belong.

6:15: Ok I don't want the extra sweat glands that could be there but were misplaced at birth, and I could have used the extra nerves at times...however I'm starting to really feel cheated...it's my hair!!

6:17: Well-formed teeth!

6:26: The little devils can have "horny masses" but mostly those are on the skin. Had enough? But it would add to your blog! (I mentioned I had to blog this.)

7:43: Ok...so do you or don't you want to know mostly they're just fatty masses?

What a revolting consolation right? Teeth? Hair? It reminds me of the "tween" in My Big Fat Greek Wedding. So I asked Mom if the dermoid is like, my aunt, and if so, will she be good at Scrabble like the rest of us Wilhelms? What's the proper habitat for a dermoid? Do they like sun? Will Aunt Derm fit in the old frog aquarium we have? Is she artistic like you Ma? Chances are, Aunt Derm won't be coming home with us, which is probably for the best, as calcified tumor-like things aren't particularly appetizing, you know? And my mom is extraordinarily creative, but somehow I don't see her taking the same pride in pointing to the aquarium saying, "I grew that!"

So she's okay, my heart slowed down, and I am forever indebted to Aunt Derm for saving my mom's life.

death by ramen

Most of you know that my ridiculous food allergies, which prohibit me from eating everything but rocks and some sediments, have relegated me to a daily menu of bananas, Top Ramen (in the buff), and whatever meat I can scrounge up, since I don't cook. I eat the banana for breakfast, Ramen for lunch, and typically, another Ramen for dinner. Initially this was working fine. Being that I can't have anything tasty, I detached from food altogether, and was rewarded for my deprivation by losing over forty pounds. Not too shabby eh? Unfortunately all good things must come to an end. For me, the end looked like this: My fingernails started falling completely out. In sheets. All the way to the nail bed. It's gorgeous, I don't know why it didn't catch on. Then came the fistfuls of hair, which I tried to ignore until I was down to a few strands and B started terrifying me with warnings of scurvy and death.

Meanwhile, I fell out of love with dry Ramen. This is very bad, as it is my staple. My cupboard full of Oriental-flavored crunchy wonderment and sustenance gave me great security. I could feel full and lose weight, for the low low price of 10 cents per pack. Well, I guess you get what you pay for. I mean, I'm dying for chrissake. I carry a bag of them in my car, which is sheer genius, and helps me avoid burritos. Those unassuming little packs were also my hero the night we all left Jacob's to discover 15 inches of impenetrable ice on every car window. I mean this shit was not coming off. First I was using a pen, until my fingers froze and fell off (in keeping with the pattern of hair and fingernail loss), and then I remembered the Ramen. I grabbed a pack, already frozen stiff, and scraped away until a blessed little four-inch clearing appeared on my windshield. I was so thankful for my Ramen, that is, until the pack burst open and the noodle fragments went straight down that crevice underneath the wiper blades that no finger nor instrument on this earth can reach. (FYI: My car was still covered in ice the next morning, in the garage--it was mo' fo' cold yo!)

(Just in case anyone in my meager readership is afflicted with OCD, Todd took the Jeep to the dealership and spent $4,000 on some fancy car wash because the Ramen remnants were driving us insane. We don't agree on much, but Ramens in the crevice is enough to make either of us gnaw a hole in our face.)

Moving on. I hate Ramen. Save for their utilitarian, life-saving value. Every third package is stale, and I've come to feel like some prisoner, knowing that it's my very own ineptitude that has landed me in this dismal, albeit crunchy, predicament. But they're handy, and filling, and 10 cents, and no, I do not eat the seasoning packet. Oh, and they're killing me? So yeah, B devised a genius new plan. I often pitch in around her house, aka: Maia's lair, and she is always cooking for me, when I would otherwise starve or eat McDonald's cheeseburgers minus the "meat." So she cleverly suggested that once a week, I come whip the house into shape, while she cooks me a week's worth of succulent meals too fabulous to list, lest you all become jealous and/or storm her house. But it's a freakin' sweet deal. (Did anyone else hear that in Napolean Dynamite's voice? I'm feeling the need to tell you I'm pretty good with a bow staff...) Anyway, we're on week two, and I'm in heaven. I now have several variations of MEAT MEAT MEAT to choose from, and I scoff when I walk past the Ramen cupboard. I can finally stop seeing everyone as a roasted chicken, like in the old cartoons, and tear into real life flesh! My fingernails, while tentative, aren't dropping off, and my hair loss is waning. What's more, I no longer view Ramen as my lifesource, and finally see it as the rest of you see it: The quintessential staple of poverty, and/or a signal that you are too stoned.

So my hat and fingernails are off to you B, and I am eternally grateful, yet again, for your brilliant machinations to save me from myself, and from death by Ramen. I will get to those windows, and thanks to you, the reflection I see won't be bald!

tea time

As homeschoolers, trying to merge back into the fast lane after the holiday break is incredibly daunting. As yet, we haven't even made it into the slow lane. Hell, we're pretty much sputtering on the shoulder, hoping for a rescue vehicle. We're back to the basics, just nothing fancy...nor consistent. I ran out of black ink while copying math pages this morning, and even though the drawer with extra cartridges is within reach from where I sit, and contains, I believe, three cartridges currently, I mentally vetoed that possibility in favor of skipping math "because we're out of ink." Instead, we talked about Barack Obama, Hilary Clinton, Napolean Dynamite. (Quinn does an impersonation that is as shockingly accurate as it is painfully embarrassing, and he really wants to show Karen.) Rei had a sore throat yesterday and was house-bound, a fate worse than death for her, just like her mama. So today we were itching to get out, and as we checked various errands off our list, we kept debating as to whether or not to go to Starbucks. I didn't want Rei having a caramel frappucino the day after a sore throat, Quinn hadn't eaten anything, because my kids never eat, so it didn't seem right to indulge his love of chai lattes, and I have pretty much given up coffee, and if I do have one, I have a panic attack the size of Texas every time. So you know we went. Our server was Scott, who is cute enough to charm a girl who isn't into boys, but Republican enough that he is lucky I didn't kill him with my bare hands the day (six months ago) we got into a vicious debate about the relevancy of the election. Yeah, I attempted to hand him an Obama sticker, which was presumptuous and probably unprofessional. But shit, I wasn't the one in uniform so I can do whatever I want. He wouldn't take it, and there was something about his little faux-hawk and smirk and Abercrombie-ness that clued me in to the root of his wrongness. I said, "Oh, let me guess, The Bible? Specifically, Revelation? It's all pointless?" He gave me a look that suggested he briefly thought he had found an ally, only to rediscover that I was actually trouncing him in the argument. I had the last word and sped off, such a great feeling, I highly recommend it, and then avoided that Starbucks like the plague for weeks, making Todd go in my stead. Eventually I lost a bunch of weight, changed my hair, put on some sunglasses, and realized I am not the center of his world, and started going again.

Back to today: We pulled forward, and Scott was hanging out on the ledge, as though he had been awaiting our visit all day. His hair was especially (faux-ish? hawkish?) cute. He was all smiles, completely oblivious to how close I came to gutting his gorgeous little face with my fingers not so long ago. He asked what we were up to, why I had the kids with me. I said we're homeschoolers, out on errands, needing a pick-me-up. He beamed and said he had been homeschooled too, until third grade. When I inquired as to his transition into public school, he rather comfortably said that he just walked in and owned the place, instantly. He said, "Yeah on my first day I just said 'here I am,' and I was on top from that moment on. I'm in college now and I still am. I mean, I played football, wasn't shy..." I interjected, "Don't forget how handsome you are!" In a playful way though. But god. Some gorgeous young Bible-toting, election-hating, Revelation-citing, barista with rad hair and a face that won't quit? Ugh. What a waste of good genes. What does this have to do with homeschooling though? I have no idea.

We got our treats, and a free blended chai-thing that was made in error, and got to breathe the sunshine air. Surely with all the caffeine surging through our veins, someone will have the strength to open the drawer with the ink cartridges...

this magic moment

My president is Barack Hussein Obama, and this is one of the defining moments of my life. There are no words to capture this feeling, but I hope you're all sharing it.

Oh, and don't forget to wave bye-bye to the madman:


No more monkeys jumping on the bed!!!

coffee talk

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?"

"Whatdoyoumean?"

"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?"

(Aghast) "No,I'lljustgotoB's."

"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.

leaving on a jett plane

I have been obsessed with celebrity babies since childhood. In the pre-computer days of my youth, I relied on People Magazine to quench my thirst for seeing famous tots, always excited (though often dismayed by) their names, and always hoping for glimpses of their little faces in People's Star Tracks pages. Seven or eight years ago, there was a particularly sweet cover with John Travolta, Kelly Preston, and a stunningly beautiful Jett, aged seven or so. This boy was so mesmorising, with his black hair, giant, piercing blue eyes, and eyelashes so thick and dark, he must have been the envy of every model on earth. I was absolutely riveted by his beauty, and saved that issue. I had been intrigued since his birth because, well, celebrity babies had yet to become a national fixation, and I thought his name was especially rad, clever, and apropos since his dad is a pilot. But the first picture ever released was Jett at seven, and he took my breath away. Shortly thereafter a sister arrived, and while John and Kelly rose to super stardom, photos of the kids were disappointingly scarce, if not totally non-existent. Cut to the marvelous invention, Celebrity Baby Blog, wherein baby druggies such as myself can get a fix on all the latest names (be they precious or criminal), faces, and and often ridiculous wardrobes and privileges of these alluring tots. Last year there was a picture of Jett Travolta with his family, all but grown up, and I remember thinking that something wasn't quite right about his demeanor. His family was on the beach, and something about his posture, body language, and expression seemed to convey that he didn't quite understand where he was. The brief article referenced medical issues, and a speech delay, which was the first thing I'd heard about him since his beaming face captured my heart eight years prior. I felt so sad for him, for his family, as I would anyone grappling with an impaired child, and I was sad that this radiant boy was now a (still beautiful) teenager, coping with a condition that was explained in very vague terms. Their daughter Ella is also quite pretty, but I've always been drawn to Jett, and wished there were more pictures. Several months later CBB caught another photo series, and again, Jett seemed mostly unaware of his surroundings, and it was evident by the swelling in his face that he was unhealthy. But those eyes, they could cut through your heart like butter, and the family looked normal and at ease, despite whatever this mystery illness was. So I've seen maybe three pictures of this stunning child in his life.

Imagine my surprise six (?) days ago when the CBB headline was that that beautiful boy had died, in the arms of his father, who attempted CPR for so long the EMAs had to forceably remove him from his son and take him to the hospital, where he was declared dead. 16 years old, the love of his father's life. Dead. I know parents lose children everyday, and that no child's life is more or less valuable than any other's, but I was deeply struck by Jett's death, and the subsequent, previously unheard details of his seizure disorder, and his exceptionally close bond with his father. My heart breaks for Jett's family, and I hope he lived a happy life in spite of his challenges. It seems obvious that he was loved tremendously. Since his passing, his family has released a handful of pictures, by which I am still intrigued, and now, greatly saddened. This photo sort of haunts me in a way, in spite of its profound sweetness. Beyond the glitz and glamour of fame and wealth, a father loved his son, and a son loved his father. Hug those babies extra tight friends, our time with them is so precious.



May you rest in peace you dear dear boy, and may your family find a way to heal. I didn't know you, but as a mom, I mourn your loss, and will never forget your face.

love is thicker than water

So my ma, the fiercest of warriors, and definitely not given to complaining about pain, has been nursing her left side for several weeks, and recently revealed that there is some significant swelling there. I urged the stubborn ox to call her doctor, and was fairly concerned when she did, as she is quite prone to dismiss pains, and doesn't see the need to kick up a fuss over every little thing. But this thing has her worried. So she had some lab work done Friday and was slated to get an ultrasound yesterday morning at 7:45am. In discussing the prep procedure, Mom mentioned she couldn't have water after midnight Sunday night. Upon hearing this, Reilly grew very worried, as her Gia (Gia with a hard G, what Quinn started calling her at six months old) is the original nightowl in our family, and how on earth would she survive without water?

Rei told her papa the news, and he assured her Gia would be fine. She and Quinn talked for an hour about how they hoped my mom would go to sleep early so she wouldn't have to suffer being thirsty. She even called her friend Andrea. Finally, when I could see that tears were emerging, I reminded Rei that when I had my surgery last year, swishing some water in my mouth and spitting it out was surprisingly satisfying. Soon it was time for bed, and my kids were more squirrelly than usual. Rei typically gets up for a drink several times, which I don't mind. I'm just glad my kids are big camels like their mama. Then I noticed that when she came out, at 12:11am, she went to the sink, took a drink, swished it around, and spit it out, without having any idea that I was watching her. My heart almost exploded. She loves her Gia more than words can say, and her precious little act of silent solidarity, it still brings tears to my eyes. She acts tough, but her heart is pure gold, and I am one proud mama today.