Time Capsule

Hello, blogosphere! Long time, no post. I am such a great blogger! Here's a little gem to show I still care: Today, I wrote a fan letter to Dr Pepper. I post it here for posterity, and for the amusement of other, saner people (particularly the amusement of those who know that every single word is the absolute truth).

Dear Dr Pepper,

This letter's only intention and purpose is to express my deep and abiding love for you as the best of all carbonated beverages. You are liquid joy. You are my life blood. You are the nectar of the gods. I suspect you might be the fountain of youth (I'm still researching that one).

It has been said of me that whereas most human beings are 70% water, I am 70% Dr Pepper. Despite the somewhat grisly side-effect of being pre-designated as the tastiest of all my social groups (in the event of life-threatening catastrophes like plane crashes, being lost in the mountains, or the zombie apocalypse), I must say the honor of being comprised mostly of Dr Pepper is incomparable to any feeling in the world.

You could set your clock by my daily Dr Pepper consumption -- 10, 2, 4, and a few just for snacking in between... Liquid sunshine never gets old. I won't claim to be Dr Pepper's biggest fan -- I'm sure there are millions of people who recognize the pure bottled genius you make available to us daily. But I will tell you that I am a Dr Pepper girl, through and through, a walking advertisement for your delicious soda.

Just check out my profile picture on Facebook, in which I am wearing one of many Dr Pepper tee shirts which make up a large part of my usual wardrobe. Or you could come to a party with me, when the hosts make sure that for every one 2-liter of Dr Pepper they bought for the other guests, there is one 2-liter just for my use.

They do this because they know that to offer me anything else is just silly. It's me; it's what I do. The restaurants that carry Mr. Pibb quickly find out that this chick doesn't subject her tastebuds to the cheap imitations. Only the real deal will quench my thirst. It is my avowed hope to one day have an entire room filled with Dr Pepper, and only Dr Pepper -- like a wine cellar, except 23 times better.

In the meantime, I am writing you this letter. My words are small, but heartfelt. I suppose I just wanted to officially declare my overwhelming affections in a tangible way, and to encourage you to keep up the good work. Because for me, you really do make the world taste better.

I could go on for pages and pages and pages, but for sanity's sake, I will spare you further raptures on my part. Just know that our love will last a lifetime. This is the taste.

Drinking it slowly,
Me. ;D

Metamorphosis

I.  Hate.  Change.

This has been true of me since the womb.  And I don't mean that in the hyperbolic sense in which it is usually said.  I have literally hated change since the womb.

I already know you don't believe me, so strap in for story-time, y'all!

The story of my birth has been repeated to me so many times that it's almost as if I remember it firsthand.  I don't, though; my memory's not that good.  But I should warn you that this story was not told so many times as a warm-fuzzy, nostalgic, how-awesome-is-it-that-Rose-was-born? type of story.  Oh, no.  The story of my birth has been recounted for years for one reason, and one reason alone: to scold me.

Unlike my brother -- who came right on time and practically on his own, and then was fighting and squalling from the moment he hit the chilly hospital air -- I was a late, late baby.  I was supposed to be born in September, but I guess I wanted to be my dad's birthday present, because I didn't end up coming out until October, three days after Dad's birthday.

There are many reasons I might have been in there so long.  It's possible that the doctor's original estimate for my due date wasn't entirely correct.  But that's just like me, to assume that they were wrong, and not me.  Never me.  I'm always right.  To borrow from Gandalf: I'm never late; I always arrive precisely when I mean to.

However, I admit that's probably not why.  By the time October 14th rolled around, My Superhero Mom was swelled up like a miniature Hindenberg and ready to pop, suggesting that I'd probably been cooking for quite a while.

When that route fails me, I usually try to blame it on my Dad's family.  Dallases have always carried their babies a little longer than the average human woman, giving the term "Momma's boy" entirely new meaning in our family...  But that theory usually gets busted because of Brother's eager entry into the world.  That and because Mom is not a Dallas (our necks are pretty red, but our family tree does fork... most of the time).

So what I end up left with after all that is the probable reason for my late and dramatic emergence into life: my complete aversion to change.  Seriously, when my Dad tells me this story, he always ends up coming back around to how much I hate change.

So here's how it went down:

I'm a fetus, chillin' in My Superhero Mom's kick-awesome womb.  I was pretty happy there, yo.  You could tell by how much I would dance around in there.  Drove Mom crazy.  (On a completely unrelated sidenote: I was made entirely out of Mexican food.  Seriously.  My mom couldn't get enough of it).  So of course, I'm sittin' there, treating my mom's bladder like a soccer ball, and thinking, "This is a pretty sweet set-up."

I am a big believer in quitting while you're ahead.  If you are in a good situation, there is absolutely no reason for that situation to change in any way.  Heck, if you're in an acceptable situation, or maybe even a slightly bad, but tolerable situation, I don't really see the need for change then, either.  Change for the better, change for the worse -- doesn't matter, it's all undesirable in my book.

So little fetus-me is thinking there is no reason for me to leave this nice dark, warm place where I am constantly fed and happy.  And Mom clearly loves me in here, so I'll just hang out.

Then on October 14th, Mom threw me out.  She went to Centennial Hospital and had me induced.  Some chemical came along, popped its head into my cozy uteral home without knocking, and promptly evicted me from the premises.

Here we come to my knee-jerk reaction, and the reason for all the scolding.  Whenever change foists itself upon me (which, as anyone could have predicted, is unfortunately all-too-often), my automatic response is to curl in on myself and throw a fit.  We're not talking about a cute little foot stomping, or a sweet little lip sticking out in a pout.  Oh, no.  We're talking kicking, screaming, flailing, I-won't-do-it-and-you-can't-make-me explosions of unwillingness.

The first manifestation of this somewhat stupid coping mechanism occurred upon my birth.  While I was still on the way into the world -- before my tiny, purple little head had even tasted its first breath of polluted oxygen -- I threw a fit.

Angry with my mother for ousting me, I started breathing long before I was supposed to.  It was my only way to spite her.  Big surprise -- that did not end well.  You see, when you try to breathe when there's no air, it doesn't really work right.  So I basically ended up nearly drowning myself... before I was even born.

At this point, my Aunt Karen usually takes over and explains how when I came out all blue and wrong-looking, they rushed me off, but since my Aunt Karen was a nurse at the time, she got to be special and go with me...  Now, as a smoker for decades, I don't really think my Aunt Karen has the right to scold me about not breathing right.  But she does, all the time.  And my parents, grandparents, cousins, other aunts and uncles, and sometimes the random friends they've brought along do it, too.  So I guess I shouldn't have breathed in all that fluid.

Of course, I survived, as you probably deduced, being literate individuals.  But that's never the point of the story.  The point is that I hate change.

I hate change.

And, honestly, I didn't learn anything from nearly drowning myself almost 23 years ago.  Anytime anything changes, I still want to breathe prematurely just to spite the powers-that-be.  I want to curl up and spin a nice little cocoon, where I'll be able to sleep until the change is over.

I just want it to happen without me -- is that so hard?  I wouldn't mind so much if I could just wake up a couple months later once everything's settled again, and adjust to the aftereffects.  But noooooooooo, human girls aren't allowed to sleep for a couple of months to escape their problems.

So, here I am, in the midst of my biggest obstacle.  I'm changing jobs.  My family left for Texas on Monday, and as a result, I'm changing homes.  Last night, I even finished one journal and had to change over to the next.  Ch-ch-changes!

That's why I haven't written for a few months.  Well, and because I haven't had Internet.  But mostly because I hate change.

Did I mention that I hate change?

Request

When you work in a retail environment, you get the chance to people-watch extensively.  Since I am a people-watcher anyway, and since my overactive imagination likes to draw obscure conclusions, I have noticed something about the way children ask for candy.

If you've ever watched House, you know that there are five psychological stages a person passes through on his way to death.  You begin with Denial,  transition into Anger, cycle into Bargaining, fall into Depression, and then finally make your way to Acceptance.

House has all the answers.

What I have come to realize is that, when a child asks for candy, he goes through those stages.  In reverse.  I shall explain.

The last stage of death is Acceptance.  Basically, the child starts out dead, following his mom around the grocery store while she gets all the boring things that she has to cook before they are edible.  But when he enters this first/last stage, he wakes up from his stupor and accepts the following facts: 1) he is a child, 2) there is candy nearby, and 3) the combination of candy and child would be superhero-making.

The child will then exclaim, "Mommy, I want a Butterfinger!"

Normal moms will probably ignore this petition, which triggers the transition into the next stage: Depression.  The child can see the candy, and reach the candy, and touch the candy, but he cannot have the candy.  This causes whining, which stems out of the child's depression and is designed to cause depression in others.

The child will then wail, "Please, please, please, please, pleeeeeeeeeeeeease can I have a Butterfinger?"

If, at that point, the mother has not capitulated, a seamless switch into Bargaining occurs.  The child begins to barter with whatever is at his disposal.  Does he have a younger sibling?  Why yes, yes he does.  Does that younger sibling belong to him?  Why yes, yes he does.  Little brother = bargaining chip.

The child will then offer magnanimously, "I'll share it with Barrett, Mommy!  I'll share my Butterfinger with Barrett, if you get it for me!"

Hopefully, most moms acknowledge the child's generosity in offering.  However, if they still refuse to purchase the treat, the child will grow frustrated, which leads directly into Anger.  At first, the only way the child can express this anger is to pull a sour face, stomp his feet, and growl.  But once that phase has passed, he decides a threat will represent his anger well enough.

The child will then proclaim, "I won't stop asking you until you get me a Butterfinger!  Get me a Butterfinger!  Please, please, please, get me a Butterfinger!"

By this time, the mom usually has the excuse of having finished the transaction, thereby making it all a moot point.  She will most likely reprimand the child for his petulance, while gently explaining that it's time to go, and maybe he can get a treat next time if he behaves.  In order to process this acute rejection, the child slowly reaches the final/first stage of Denial.  He blocks the incident from his memory.

The child will then take his mother's hand and sigh, "I didn't really want a Butterfinger anyway."

The moral of the story is: Candy raises children from the dead.

Children can't live without candy.

That's a bunch of psycho-babble anyway--candy is a child's crystal meth.

Taking candy from a baby is as good as abortion.

There is no moral.  I'm just insane.

A Mighty Few

When I was in high school, I was on the newspaper staff.  It was a tiny little newspaper, powered entirely by its student members.  We designed the layouts, wrote the cheesy headlines, took the grainy pictures, cropped them to fit, spent hours searching for just the right piece of appropriate and amusing ClipArt... and yes, we wrote the articles.

In my first year as a member, my junior year, we were made aware of a significant event.  A previous alum, a Marine, had been given the Bronze Star after seeing combat in Afghanistan.

It just so happened that I knew The Marine, not through high school, but rather through church.  I had known him for years in that our-parents-run-in-the-same-circles way.

I could remember being over at their house when the boys (The Marine and his twin brother) were still in high school.  I can't remember why we were there or what I was doing.  But I do remember that the twin was on the computer, listening to The Marine, who was talking even then about his plans to join the military.  He even showed me how to do a real push-up.

Because of that connection, hearing about this high honor being conferred upon him made me ridiculously proud.

The time came to decide which of us would write the article, and although part of me really wanted to write it, the other part of me was scared to death of screwing it up.  But no one else felt up to the task, either; this was the most serious, most important news article we had ever written.  Eventually, I bit the bullet, and volunteered.

Other than an installment of the fictional story I was writing with PurpleFriend for the issue, the article about The Marine was my only other writing responsibility.

I won't lie.  I procrastinated.  Which is something I am very good at.

But I knew I had to write it.  I wanted to write it, and write it well.  So I got my mom involved.

My Superhero Mom got me The Marine's phone number by way of His Awesome Mom.  I sat next to the phone for two hours writing and re-writing my questions for him.  I was less-than-thrilled about talking on the phone, but for this purpose it seemed not only necessary, but also worthwhile.  I picked up the phone and dialed.

For the next 45 minutes or so, The Marine patiently answered my questions and explained the events leading up to his award.  I was overwhelmed.  The situation he was describing was far too intense for me to imagine, but you can bet my imagination did its best.  I was scared for my friend, so much so that my mouth went dry, and the pencil I used to record his words shook in my hand.

"I could feel the prayers," he told me near the end of the interview.  "There was no way I could have survived that without God... I was convinced those prayers were saving me."

Only a few minutes later, I hung up the phone, and cried.

The next day, I set about composing the article.  It began with The Marine's childhood dreams, and what followed was gunfire.  The story I wrote then was unique to my repertoire, being the only such story I'd ever set to paper that wasn't fictional.  The Marine, brave in a way I would never fully understand, put his own life in danger, while his fellow soldiers fell back to cover, to call in the coordinates for air support.  His efforts led to victory.

That ridiculous pride only grew stronger as I put the finishing touches on the article and cropped the picture of the ceremony provided by His Awesome Mom.  That article remains one of the best things I have ever written, merely because of the subject -- the character and courage of the subject.

A few weeks later, The Marine was actually in town.  He came to church with His Awesome Mom, who wanted to put the two of us face-to-face after our phone conversation and the article.  I just remember being nervous as all get-out, standing there in front of this person.  I'd known him for years, sure, but now he was a Marine, and a hero to boot!  I couldn't speak.  I just smiled like an idiot.

He held out his hand for a handshake.

It is pertinent to tell you at this juncture in the story, that The Marine was not very tall.  I think I was 5'7"ish as a junior in high school, and height-wise, he didn't top me by much.

But good Lord, did that boy have muscles.

He held out that hand to shake mine, and I could feel my eyes going wide.  I was sure his bicep was as big as I was.  I was also sure he could crush my hand by accident.  But I swallowed, took that hand, and shook it as firmly as I could.  (I am absolutely certain he was not fooled in any way.  The Marine definitely knew I was a wimp).

I think after that, we exchanged a few words about life, the article, and tattoos, but my memory of the conversation is honestly a little fuzzy.  I was half-focused on his words and half-focused on the color rising into my face.

Our paths crossed a few more times, but for the most part, my knowledge of The Marine after that was indirect.

I knew when he got married.  And my parents helped him out quite a bit when he moved.  And through his twin brother, to whom I was and am much closer, I was fortunate enough to hear about him, his wife, his two adorable little girls.  I knew him that way, and loved him because of it.

I am just a wanna-be writer, with extra words tucked into every corner of my head.  Those words could never be enough to describe the kind of person he was, the amount of love and prayers that surrounded him daily, the pride he incited just by being what he was born to be.  But I wouldn't have felt right if I didn't at least try.

God rest you, Kevin Balduf.  You were more than a hero to me.

Diplomatic

In honor of my blog's redesign, I hereby confer upon you a new post.

You're welcome.

Let's begin with a story from my childhood.  Yes, that's right.  Another one.  Let's face it, folks-- I had a long and eventful childhood, and I retain useless memories like Arnold Schwarzenneger retains a very good lawyer: just in case.

This particular gem has stuck with me through the years because it was a realization that was relevant to my daily life.  You see, at my little elementary school, we got an hour of recess every day.  As a child, I utilized every moment of my time outside, as you may remember from previous posts.

One day, I was playing with a group of similarly adventurous children, when we decided to go past the boundary.  This was a big no-no.  But all the teachers were occupied watching the littlest kids struggle with the monkey bars, and all the high grass looked like a huge adventure waiting to happen.  So, like the intrepid explorers of olde, we stepped over the log benches and into the unknown.

We frolicked around in the grass for almost the entire hour of recess, until a teacher realized that half the first grade class was missing, and came to find us.  For most of my classmates, it was too late.

Don't worry-- nobody dies in this blog post.  They just get really bad boo-boos.

You see, the next morning, when everyone arrived at school, they had all these welts and red spots all over them.  Our teacher took one look and diagnosed it as poison ivy.  But I, who had been the forerunner of them all (no, literally, we played Follow-the-Leader, and the Leader was moi), did not have a single spot to show for my midday romp through the forbidden grass.

Later on in life, I learned that through an accident of genetics, no one in my family is allergic to poison ivy, unlike the majority of the human species.  But at the time, I was SuperGirl.

This is where I change the subject in a way that seems completely random, but which will eventually circle back around to the original story, thereby making this a (somewhat) coherent blog post.

I got pulled over tonight.  By a cop.  With blue flashy lights and everything.  Also, I was five feet away from the gate to my apartment complex.

Somehow, I have only been pulled over four times in my life.  That may seem like a lot for a 22-year-old, but I'll let you in on a little secret: I break traffic laws.  Like a lot.  Particularly speeding.  Sometimes I run lights late at night.  And sometimes I roll right on through stop signs (like I did tonight).  But usually, I don't get caught.

Incident #1: The first time I got pulled over, I was speeding over the Interstate in Monteagle, a little podunk town where everybody, but everybody, speeds over the Interstate.  At least 50 (in a 35).  Anyway, I was going 50, and I got pulled over.  BrownFriend was in the car with me, so it was super-embarrassing that I got pulled over for the first time with someone there to witness my shame.  However, at the time, I was not too concerned about it.

I had just found out that my mother had breast cancer.  Again.  So you can imagine my distress.  BrownFriend and I were actually on the way to the CVS so that I could buy pink hair dye, to show my solidarity.  I was crying.  I probably shouldn't have been driving while I was crying, but... oh, well.

So the cop pulls me over, tells me how fast I was going, sees that I am incredibly upset, and takes pity on me.

End Result: No Ticket.

Incident #2: Same place, about a year later.  Remember how everybody speeds over the Interstate?  Still true.  And I was following one such everybody to a Retirement Home.  I had never had occasion to visit the Old Folks' Home before now, so I had to keep up with this OneSuchEverybody.  We go 50 in a 35.  Blue lights hit my rear view mirror.

In my car with me are three very scared little freshmen, members of my a capella choir (which is going to perform at the Old Folks' Home).  They sit timidly and make themselves as small as possible as -- yes-- the very same cop who had previously pardoned me strolled up to the window.

I believe I squeaked out something along the lines of, "Evening, officer."  I was just proud that I wasn't crying this time.

I explain the situation, that I would be lost with OneSuchEverybody, and he laughingly admits that it was a "crapshoot between which of [us] [he] was going to pull over," since OneSuch was not only speeding, but also had a tail light out.

End Result: No Ticket.

Incident #3: We'll be back in the Music City for this one.  There is a spot on one of our main roads where it is really easy to speed, since the stretch of road is levelling out from a rather substantial little hill.  Unless you ride your brake on the way down, you'll probably be speeding by the time you reach this little patch of highway.  Naturally, I am not one who is often inclined to ride her brake.  Also, it was 3am.  So I was speeding.

Blue lights.  Little siren blip.  I pull over, shut my engine off.

A red-haired cop with braces -- braces!  And he was at least 30... -- comes to my window.  I hand him all the usual documents and cards.  We had a very simple conversation that went something like:

Officer: Do you know how fast you were going?

Me: Yep.  55.  [In a 45.]

Officer: Oh.  Um... do you have any medical or other reason to be going so fast?

Me: Nope.

Officer: Oh.  Uh, okay.  Wait here.

He runs my license through his little whatever-they-have-that-runs-those-things.  He comes back.

Officer: You've never gotten a ticket before, have you?

Me: Nope.

Officer: You'd like to keep it that way, I'll bet, wouldn't you?

Me: Uhhhhh, yeah!

Officer: Slow down, okay?

He handed me my license back.

End Result: No Ticket.

Incident #4: Tonight, after getting off work at 11pm, having slipped magnificently (flying shoes and all) and hurt my tailbone rather badly, I was in a little bit of a hurry getting home.  Normally I am quite careful on the road I take to my apartment complex.  It's a speed trap, and PurpleFriend can attest to the fact that police cars often camp out by the one stop sign along the road just to ticket innocent people who maybe roll a little bit instead of fully stopping.

I rolled through that stop sign like it was a yield sign that was just pretending.

Blue lights, all that jazz.

I pulled over, turned off my engine, got out my license.  However, he asked for my registration also, and when I opened my glove compartment to get it, my whole glove compartment fell off the dashboard.  I fished my registration out of the wreckage and handed it to the police officer, who explained that I really ought to stop at the stop sign.

When he returned two moments later, he handed me my license, my registration, asked me if I knew which stop sign he was talking about, and upon hearing that I did, bid me a good night.

End Result: No Ticket.

I wish a cop would give me a ticket.  I deserve a ticket.  I feel pretty guilty about the fact that I have gotten away with this four times.

But, in the end, I guess it's not just poison ivy I'm immune to.

Huh

I kind of suck at this blogging thing.

Whispers

I think my air conditioning can tell on me.

Where have I been, you ask?  Oh, losing a job, finishing a novel, experiencing the numb faces of dentistry... Basically, life happened and it sort of caught me off guard.  But that's not why I am writing today.

I am writing because my A/C is a tattle-tale.

As far as I knew, my air conditioning and I were getting along just fine.  Sure, there was a little rattling sometimes.  And yeah, it's definitely been hotter than I'd like in my apartment of late.  But overall, I thought our relationship was pretty good.  If not good, definitely functional.

Apparently I was wrong.  While I was slumbering the morning away, peacefully and deeply, my air conditioner must have been complaining to a higher power.  I know it was telling on me, because I was awakened fifteen minutes before my alarm was set to go off by some fairly persistent pounding on my front door.

By the time the pounding finally broke through my dreams and propelled me out of bed, my cats were extremely curious about my visitors.  I lured them away from the door before cracking it open.  Outside were two guys with toolboxes.

"Hi there," they greet me, and the one closest to me clearly has a laugh in his voice.  I can't really blame him.  I was wearing penguin pajamas.

Squinting in the spring sunlight, I clear my throat and say something like, "Hi.  Can I help you?"

LaughingGuy squints back at me.  "Yeah, we're here to fix the air conditioner."  He says it with authority.  I frown in confusion.  "What's it doing?" he asks me, all solicitation and concern.

I make some hems and some haws.

"Nothing, huh?" he laughs.  He seems to like to do that.

"Nothing that I know of," I agree.  After a moment of hesitation, I figure these guys look pretty legit.  "Come on in," I offer, and open the door.

The next few minutes saw me trying to get my cats into a different room (they were quite uncooperative), and saw the toolbox guys taking apart my air conditioner (they were quite unconcerned about my cats).  But they needed a tool from the truck, so while they went to get that, I got my cats into my room and changed into regular clothing.  Well, as regular as ever, anyway.

And then five minutes later, they had fixed whatever I didn't know was wrong.

LaughingGuy wipes his hands on his jeans.  "You keep an eye on your filter, huh?"

I just repeat that last word back, "Huh?"

"Your filter.  It's really clean."

"Oh, yeah."  I don't know anything about that filter.  The fact that it was clean was pure dumb luck.

LaughingGuy nods in approval.  "Most of these people don't even know they have a filter."

Little does he know that I am one such "most people."

"It's kind of scary."  LaughingGuy jokes around with OtherGuy as they leave, and then they are out the door.  My morning interruption is over before my alarm has even gone off.

Vaguely, I wonder if they made up the thing about the A/C and the loose connection just to get a look at what they can steal later, but then I remember that they've seen my vicious guard cats, so they probably won't try anything.

I suppose it is possible it was making some kind of ungodly racket that only my neighbors could hear.
Still, though, I don't know how they knew to come.  Unless Big Brother's name is Lee.

I'm going to be a lot more guarded with my air conditioner now that I know it's got a big mouth.  And a filter.