Java Jump Jive an’ Wail

I’m in love – obsessed really.

It’s Juan Valdez, the attractive man known for leading a donkey laden with burlap bags of coffee beans through the hills of Columbia.

God, how I want those beans.

I find myself making up lame excuses, dressing up in my whole-latte jeans, then sneaking out and grabbing a good, old fashion jumbo mug of java, after claiming to be “off the sauce” or “almost-stimulant-free”.

It’s the thrill, the excitement of that initial buzz that keeps me going back for more. I know it’s wrong, but I can’t stop myself.

Oh Juan, why?

Afterwards I’m nervous, shaky and my heart feels like it’s going to burst out of my chest, but I find myself already planning my next dark roast adventure.

Hello. My name’s Viv and I’m addicted to caffeine.

It could be worse. I could be addicted to sex or drugs or alcohol or sniffing new crayons or the National Enquirer.

Oh wait, I am addicted to the National Enquirer. Of course, it’s just for the crossword puzzles. And if you buy that, my brother browses Penthouse for the highbrow political commentary.

The trouble is I don’t really notice when I cross that defining line and transform from a lethargic and pulse-free aging female to a Jump Jiving an’ Wailing junkie who gets light-headed from the flapping sound of her own rapidly blinking eyelids.

That’s the point when I become, well … my friends call it “edgy.” My enemies call it worse.

I decided to go cold turkey and just quit caffeine. It was the longest eight hours of my life.

¡Hola! soy Juan Valdez. En ella encontrará información sobre quién soy, lo que hago, el Café de Colombia y sobre los cafeteros.

6 a.m.: Got out of bed, sat on the couch, and fell back to sleep while putting on flip-flops.

7 a.m.: Drug myself into the bathroom and fell into coma-like stupor on the rug. Dreamed I was on a Folgers Cruise with Juan in the Isle of Maxwell.

8 a.m.: Came to with a RAGING, POUNDING headache. Decided to try to sleep it off.

8:01 a.m. – 1 p.m.: Slept.

1 p.m.: Had to do a load of laundry. Nodded off until my head hit the spin cycle. Maybe just half a cup? To take the edge off.

2 p.m.: Feel a little better after downing 4 ounces of strong brew. Read the National Enquirer with startling zoom shots of “Celebrity Cellulite in Curacao.” There was a sidebar recipe for a body scrub of coffee grounds and avocados that was guaranteed to reduce the appearance of cellulite. Hmmm … it had to work even better from the inside.

3-4 p.m.: Okay, okay, so I brewed a pot and drank the entire thing. Get off my back. The important thing is, I feel like my old self, albeit with dilated pupils and rapid heart rate, but   faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive and able to leap tall buildings in a single bound.

4-5 p.m.: Decided to clean the closets and rearrange the stuff under all of the sinks.

5-8 p.m.: Brewed another pot of coffee. Been thinking of putting in larger patio slab; this seems as good of time as any. How hard can it be to form and frame a 12′ by 12′ square and mix and pour concrete?

8 p.m. –  midnight: Finally got some work done – 10 chapters! – on The Book That Will Never Be, plus I posted 10 status reports on Facebook, Twittered several mind-blowing thoughts, posted three recent craft projects on Pinterest and emailed  copies to all to my friends who refuse to engage in social networking.

1-3 a.m.: Can’t sleep. Might as well have a cup of coffee … I’m already awake. Called mom to ask what kind of stitch I should use for the binding on that quilt I started. Before she hung up on me she said if I called again at 2 p.m. she would call the police.

Geesh, what’s up with her? She’s kinda edgy.

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