About Coffee, Relatives, Birthday's, And Unforgettable Moments

Today is the day I always think of my grandmother.

Sure, it's the anniversary of my birth, but more importantly, it's the anniversary of the day I drank my first cup of coffee.

After years of sneaking sweetened spoonfuls to me when no one was looking (moonshine came later), my grandmother announced during dinner, a few weeks before my 11th birthday, that 'she was going to start letting me drink coffee when I turned 11'.

"All this talk about coffee stunting your growth!" she continued, "Humph! Look at her! She's tall enough already. A little coffee ain't gonna hurt her."

I held my breath and kept my eyes pinned to the table; not daring to look at my mother, waiting for an eruption⎯ and then... nothing. It was blessed silence.

A few moments later, normal dinner conversation resumed. I looked up and met my grandmother's eyes; she winked... I grinned..., and then started looking toward my birthday with added anticipation.

To this day, I still drink my coffee exactly the way my grandmother first served it to me: strong enough to melt the paint off a wall, with a little cream and two sugars.

It's odd. The moments you remember. I can't recall the exact day I learned to drive, started my first job, or lost my virginity... but I remember my first cup of coffee.

Here's to Grandma... I miss you.

Love,

Tess

Happy 24th Birthday Mr. Pattinson!

Dear Robert,

It's almost your birthday!

Last year I compiled a list of things I wished for you ⎼ and although I'm really sorry that No. 6, [May you never lose your: passport, keys, phone, luggage, wallet, or car] didn't quite come true, I am very happy to note indications of No. 3, [May you always inspire loyalty] and No. 23, [May you love and be loved in return] in this recent article from TIME Magazine by director, Chris Weitz, in which he writes:

" I have to be careful about what I write here because it will be tweeted the moment TIME hits the stands. And if I say something bad about Rob Pattinson, I'm dead meat. That's the devotion the Twilight films inspire. It's certainly not how he planned it. And though I am continually impressed by the aplomb with which he handles the hysteria, I occasionally think he would take it all back if given the chance. Because essentially, Rob, 23, is a reserved, bookish sort of specimen, a guy who'd rather spend the night at the corner table in the pub with friends — a bit of a weirdo, frankly, in the best sense.

So how to write about someone who seems to answer Freud's rhetorical question, What do women want? Perhaps it's just worth pointing out that it'd be fun to have a beer with him even if he weren't Edward Cullen. That we haven't seen a tenth of what he can do onscreen. And that important things, beyond the veil of Hollywood, occupy his time too ⎼ music, conversation, ideas, a sense of the absurd. Which, maybe, explains why he never gets to my e-mails. I love you, Rob! Call me!"

Sentiments like Mr. Weitz's, and the one I once shared with a friend: "I appreciate the way his mind works. He makes me think, he's multifaceted, talented, layered, contradictory, a bit damaged, but at the same time whole, kind, and inherently good" ⎼ are reasons I'd consider myself honored to know you.

So Happy Birthday Robert. You are never far from my thoughts and I wish you nothing but joy... especially on the anniversary of your birth. I leave you this addition to last year's Birthday Wish List:

No. 24: Unlike Freud, May you never have to eat anchovies to dream.

I ♥ you too Rob!,

Tess