So those of you who know me know that I don’t do drugs that aren’t prescribed by a doctor. But my dear Grandma Dot (whom you can read about in my Silver Jews dream) loved Coke back when it was just called Coke. Not Coke Classic because back then there was only one. She had cases and cases of coke stacked out in the garage and just so she’d never run out, if she took one case in the house she’d buy another for the garage pile. I loved my grandma more dearly than I have ever loved anyone or thing else. She was wisdom, love, humor and cleverness all wrapped up one big hug.
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Anyways, it’s no surprise that I drink diet coke like I do. It’s in my make up handed down from Grandma Dot. That said, I may have found an excuse stronger than genetic make-up to give it up.
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So I recently took on a new role at work and I’m in a smaller cube. I have new neighbors – mostly foreign dudes – who I do not truly know yet. I decided keeping a 12pk at my desk didn’t make sense from a space standpoint and admittedly this much dt. Coke consumption isn’t healthy. So I have taken to paying $1.25 for a bottle out of the vending machine. It prickles my very soul to pay a buck twenty-five but that also slows down the consumption see?
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So I’m sitting in my new cube and notice the unsavory sent of acidic BO -- as in stinky boy body odor. Only it seems really close so I take to sniffing my pits thinking “frick, do I stink?” No, no I don’t stink. I start to think my sniffer is off. Some brain tumors make you smell toast or marshmellows. With my asshat luck, I probably have a brain tumor that makes me smell stinky pits! I try to tell myself it’s imagined but it just doesn’t go away. I get up and do a walk through the foreign dude section just outside my cube to see it the stink is emanating from there. Nope. As I finish up my bottle of DC, I decide maybe the previous occupant of this cube left something stinky behind and I will look for it tomorrow as it’s the end of the day and hunting stink just isn’t something for which I’m willing to work late.
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The next day I rinse and repeat. I put one foot infront of the other, cursing internally the whole way that I should NOT be so addicted to DC that I need to throw down a buck twenty-five. I go back to my desk and go about the business of work…. There’s the stink again! Self pit-check – nope not me. Fly by foreign boy area – nope not them. Ponder what will happen if I expire from this stinky pit smelling brain tumor while Seth’s away – will the dogs start to eat my corpse? I take a swig from the DC bottle and FRICK! The bottle smells like BO! Surely I’m crazy, right? The bottle can’t smell like BO. I then go to a trusted colleague and ask for a favor:
“Mary, smell me.. Honestly do I stink and just not smell myself?”
After a confused look and a deep sniff “No, you smell good”.
“Now smell this bottle, what do you smell?”
“Dt Coke” she giggles
“Do you smell any BO?”
“Ew, no but if you do throw it out!”
“you don’t smell it?” the hope that I don’t have a pit smelling brain tumor fades.
“I don’t think so, just throw it out”
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I go back to my cube and finish the bottle assured I’m crazy from the brain tumor.
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This morning I do the same thing ever more convinced of the brain tumor. I walk in on a sorta dirty vending guy stocking the machine. Awesomely, he stuffs bottles under his arm so he can load faster.
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The good news: I don’t have a brain tumor
The bad news: I have been wrapping my lips around the vending dude’s armpit stink.
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GAH!
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No more vending pop.
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