Diet Coke - A Drink or a Life Partner?

 Okay, you 7-10 people who read my little blog. Get ready to go where no soda lover has gone before. I present my object in first person point of view description. 

Soda as Life Partner

Soda as Life Partner

There are those who may argue that I’m unnecessary, just a poor substitute for water, which we all know is free. At least sort of. Let me tell you this – I’m the best thing invented in the last 40 years. I’m there when you celebrate every accomplishment, yet I’m with you during the darkest times – times of grief, illness, loss and sadness. My mission in life is to be consumed, enjoyed, and cherished. I’m Diet Coke, your life partner.

It all started in 1980, when most of these kids around you weren’t even born. I was born, like many things, of a recession and as a healthy substitute. You see, my older brother, Coca-Cola, started as an alternative to beer in 1886. I thought he’d never live this long, but Coke’s dark color and smooth taste charmed people everywhere. He was the talk of the fountain and everyone wanted to feel cool, so he became a staple. Of course, I remind him that it’s because he was made of cocaine. He’ll tell you that he left his checkered past long ago, but that’s why people love him.  On the other hand, I’ve always been a more refreshing, healthier option. I’m tall, dark, and carbonated as well as calorie-free. I taught you to drink from a straw and fueled your parents’ generation as they finished college, bought their first homes, and raised their kids. And now I’m yours.

I go with you to work, to school, to the movies, and I was even there with you when Tommy Krinkle ordered for you at Applebee’s. I can’t believe he thought salad was a meal! I was so glad you didn’t see him again after he ordered for you, got you one glass of me with no refills, forced you eat those weeds he called a salad, and then expected you to go Dutch on dinner. What a creep!

I remember you repeatedly cracking open one of my cans or getting the biggest size fountain cup you could during college. We sat in that cramped apartment with the cinderblock walls and cranked out assignment after assignment. We learned all the bones in the body, and we breezed through Spanish class only to get a C. A C! That seῆora was too hard on you. I loved riding in your green Hydroflask to and from campus. The way she kept me cold and carbonated! I really knew I was special. She took me to the library, your classes, on the bus, and even on that horrible road trip when we drove home in the blizzard.

I leapt for joy when you snagged that awesome work study gig. You became a published writer there. Sure, it was small informational stuff, but you created it. Oh man, I loved jamming to 70’s rock with you while you edited, reworked, and edited some more.

Just remember kiddo, I’ll always be there. I’m right on the sidelines, ready to celebrate, cheer you up, or even calm you down on those angry days. That’s what Diet Cokes do. We live life with you.

A story from A to Z or something like that.

 This week, our assignment was to write a story from A to Z in alphabetical order. The story had to contain one sentence fragment, one sentence that was exactly 100 words long, and a plot. Mine may not have the best ending... I ran out of alphabet, but it was fun!

An apocalyptic night, she thought, shuddering. Because massive wildfires ravaged the mountains above her home, ripping through land at a rate of 20,000 acres a day and destroying everything in its path, including homes, trees, wildlife, and livestock, Xena began to prepare, gathering berries, nuts, and fruits from her garden as well as spices, pots and pans, her favorite plant and her survival guidebook and pulling every last bit of jerky from her underground stash, tossing it in her satchel along with a bowie knife, her favorite hatchet, several rounds of ammunition, a compass, her favorite water bottle, some Diet Coke for energy, and a few momentos. Clearly, she couldn’t take it all, she thought as she rushed to the animals.

Dust and ashes combined in the air. Elephant-sized embers glowed near the side of the road, and Xena loaded all the animals and their crates in her trailer. Friends and neighbors had evacuated yesterday, and she’d made sure they had everything they needed before they took off. Ghastly remnants of their lives laid scattered about as Xena drove through what used to be her neighborhood. How tragic, she thought, mourning the imminent loss of her home, her garden, her shelter, and her friends.

Igniting in an instant, the shrubs lining her drive erupted as if someone struck a match and threw it into a puddle of kerosene. Jumping into her truck, Xena turned the key and slammed her foot on the gas, hard. Kitty the dog flew against the seat, hunkering down on the floor terrified by the torque that throttled her into the cushion.

Leaving trails of gravel in her wake, Xena barreled down the hill. Maybe she was going too fast, she thought. “No. Only the fastest and fittest survive anyway”, she muttered to herself. “Pushing the truck hard now ensures it won’t be burned out metal on the side of the hill later.”

Quickly continuing towards the Red Cross evacuation check-in, it donned on her. “Raggedy Ann – I left her on my bed!” she moaned. She couldn’t turn back now, though. Trees crashed behind her, slamming onto the road and igniting everything in their path.

Unbeknownst to her, Xena had rescued something far more important. Veronica, the immortal witch, lay underneath the canvas tent in the trailer. Xena would soon discover that this teeny woman held the keys to the forest’s rebirth. Yes, this small immortal being held in her hand the very item that regenerated all living things. Zocorro’s elixir – the sour syrup that would make all new – lay nestled in Veronica’s arms, and after one year she sprinkled it at the base of the forest road and made all things new.

Make it Write

 Hey all! I'm currently taking both a poetry and a fiction writing class. I thought I'd put some of my rough draft work out in this format. Read it if you'd like and feel free to comment. 

For today we wrote a paragraph of descriptive prose. 

"The crisp, dry leaves, flashing crimson, lemon, and ginger, rustle softly but swiftly above the dry and now barren ground. They stand in stark contrast to the pristine white trunks and branches. Above the canopy sit marshmallow clouds that waft through the sky, gently eased forward on their trek by the sudden chilled air, which whips around my body. My exposed skin waxes cool and clammy after a brisk walk in these woods.

"The sun greets me with his perky glowing beams, and my face flushes while enveloped in his warmth. Overhead the owl’s somber hoot and silent flight penetrate my mind’s eye, and I’m reminded again of the vast civilization dependent on this warmth, light, and life for being.

"Gazing eastward toward the jagged boulders spotted with evergreen boughs, I spot a gruff black bear inhaling silver skinned salmon, the coral flesh suspended from his massive jaw."

As always, this is my original work. Please do not plagiarize.

Hope you enjoy!

Aimee

Plot Twists and Pandemics

I use my blog as a journal. I know many of you (at least the three people who read this) are disappointed that I'm not writing the next great free novel, but alas, I have a hard time writing my final paper for English right now! Superwoman I am not!

We are all coping with the COVID-19 pandemic in different ways. I find solace in Diet Coke and Hulu. I've been isolating since the second week of March due to my crappy excuse for an immune system. Struggling to breathe in isolation has never been top on my "ways I'd be okay dying" list, so I stay home. I was okay with that for about two minutes. I kept going to work for about 10 days after the world realized that this was not the flu. Now my best friends are my grocery delivery guy and my shared backyard. I laugh when I go to the hospital for my infusions. They take my temperature and deem me fit to enter. I haven't run a fever in years. Decades. But at least I'm permitted entrance.

I digress.

Many who follow my adventures know that I moved from California to Utah to pursue my dream of becoming a music therapist. I took crazy classes like Anatomy, voice lessons, and the history of Rock and Roll, all with the same goal in mind. My first audition didn't make it past the preliminary round, but I knew I could give it one more try while completing the rest of my prerequisites, so I started prepping again. The audition process begins in December, and applicants cross their fingers and pray they'll get to audition live. I was among the lucky few who got to the live audition. I practiced 6 days a week, at least one hour a day (or until my fingers hurt), and the day finally came. I went in, I did my best, and I began waiting again. We were supposed to hear back by the first weekend in March. I waited and waited, and nothing came. I waited even longer, and then I emailed the program director to check in. After six weeks of waiting and with fall registration looming over my head, I finally called the department office.

The administrative assistant (is it still not PC to say secretary?) informed me that my name was not on the list and suggested I email the program director (again). I informed him that I'd already emailed her twice, so he suggested I email once more. Dejected and sure I knew the outcome, I emailed her. I got a reply the next day saying that my musical skills were not strong enough for the program along with the generic "thanks for auditioning, have a nice life" speech.

Aware that the program is competitive, I wasn't overly surprised that I didn't get in. I was flabbergasted that my musical abilities were to blame. I began singing "Say you, Say me" before I could talk. I taught myself piano basics by the age of six. I took lessons for 10 years. I sang in every honor choir and even in an elite college group. I began directing choirs at the age of 14. If I look at a piece of music, I can sight read it. Perfectly. Every time.

I'm not here to say poor me. I'm here to remind us all that when disappointment and rejection rear their ugly heads, we have a choice. We can sulk, stew, and surrender, or we can yell "PLOT TWIST" and move on in a new direction.

Properly identifying the plot twists in life doesn't mean that we aren't sad, disappointed, angry, frustrated, or flabbergasted. It DOES mean that we are grateful, gracious, and courageous. It means that we are up for a new challenge. It means that we allow God (or our version of a higher power) to direct us to what He has in store. It means that adventure awaits. It means that we can still forge on and fulfill our dreams and passions in new and astonishing ways.

Plot twists make classic literature classic. They keep readers up all night hoping that they'll read the ending they envisioned. Plot twists allow Elizabeth and Darcy to end up together after she tells him he's the biggest tool nineteenth century literature has ever seen. They precipitate magic.

I'm a reader

I'm taking a Children's Literature class this semester, and our first assignment was to create a literacy memoir. By the time I sat down to complete this assignment, I was shocked at the number of books I've read! Reading is one of my favorite hobbies, and it's one of the most essential abilities I possess. I encourage you to explore your own literary history. What do you like to read? Do you like to read? What was reading like in your family? What types of books do you like? What do you dislike? How did your formative reading experiences shape your relationship to literature and life? Deep stuff, I know. While your head explodes as you ponder those life-affirming questions, read my memoir. Happy reading!

            I’ve loved to read for as long as I can remember. If there’s anything I love more than reading books, it’s buying books, especially older books. The smell of books is intoxicating! I asked my mom to share some of her earliest memories of me reading, and it’s comical and enlightening. She said that I would do anything my siblings asked (I’m the third of four) if they would promise to read to me in return. “[I] loved being read to any time, any place… It was all stories all the time.” I remember building book forts in my closet, filling them with a day’s worth of books, and sitting in my closet all day long reading. I shared a room and we lived in an 1100 square foot house, so it was the only place I could get some quiet.

 My mom recalls again, “I would often go in her room to check on her at night and find her bed full of books. Not just one or two, but every book from the shelves would be in her bed, on her bed, and under her bed.” During the summer, I moved my reading outside, often carrying a book (or two or three) up the apple tree where I’d perch myself on my favorite limb and read until it got dark. I made forts outside and set up school for my dolls. I read to them and tried to get my friends to let me read to them as well. I’ve read every Berenstain Bears book, anything written by Dr. Seuss I loved Sesame Street books, and in the first grade, I found Arthur. I remember being on my first trip to the library, and I was awestruck at the sheer number of books. They were on every wall, on shelves in the middle of the room, and even on little tables with chairs just my size. Our librarian was so kind, and she asked me what I liked. I must have mentioned my love for talking animals who teach moral lessons, so she recommended an Arthur book. I came back every week for what seemed like ages and asked for more Arthur books. After a few weeks, I read them all, and the sweet librarian told me that I needed to wait for the next new Arthur book to come out and come to our library. It took FOREVER, but finally I got the new Arthur book. I kept playing the hurry up and wait game until I had read every Arthur book that came out. I remember being so disappointed when the show finally came out on PBS, because Arthur was so much cooler in my imagination!

We made weekly visits to the public library in our town as well, and I’d check out as many books as the librarian would let me. I often couldn’t carry the whole stack, but my mom was ready, willing, and able to help. She diligently helped until I started “losing” my books. She took away my library card because I’d racked up at least $30 in charges for lost or overdue books. I remember being told that books are treasures, and we must treat them responsibly. Having books was a privilege, and until I could bring my books back, I didn’t get to have that privilege. I learned quickly! Now I always have a library card, and I try to pay my late fees. I still forget to take my books back.

I remember being about five or six and being home sick. My parents had strict sick day rules. If you were sick enough to be home, you had to be low key and be sick. I was restless and I asked my mom, “What am I going to do all day?” She encouraged me to read a book, and then she went to the bookshelves and brought back a thick hardcover book. A chapter book! She told me that the story was sad, but that I would love it. That was the first time I read Charlotte’s Web. After I read that, I knew nothing could stop me, and I set out to devour all the big books in the world! I read all of Beverly Cleary’s books, most of Judy Blume’s books, all the Boxcar Children books, and all the Babysitter’s Club little sister books. Then my parents set me loose on the Babysitter’s Club books. I’d read them so fast that I could hardly wait for my older sister to give me another book in the series. Soon I was reading Roald Dahl’s classics and eager for more!

I continuously raced to finish my classwork early so that I could have “silent reading time” in class. I’m sure my teachers wanted me to stay quiet (I’ve always been a social butterfly), so they let me read a book. I still always have something to read with me, whether I’m reading ingredients, a magazine article, or the newspaper someone left on a chair.

By the time I was old enough to babysit, I packed my babysitting bag with Zoobooks and Highlights magazines and tons of picture books. I made sure to read every character in its own voice, and the kids I watched loved reading time.

My love of books came from my mom. She’s always been an avid reader, and she read to us kids all the time. She and my dad sacrificed a lot so that I could get a giant stack of books from every book order my teachers sent home, and they continued to pay for my reading habit well into high school. My dad loves reading now, but he struggled with dyslexia as a child and young adult, so reading didn’t come naturally to him. However, now he never leaves home without a book or a kindle in his hand. He reads all the time. He taught me to love reading as an adult.

I remember being in a class at work and having a book with me. I was learning from course material that I’d written for the organization, so I finished my worksheets quickly. In order to not be a distraction, I brought books. I averaged a book and a half per day. My manager pulled me aside and told me that I needed to pay attention. I informed her of my quandary, and I got to keep my books!

I love historical fiction, murder mysteries and romance. I should qualify that by saying that I don’t like mass market romance novels. I love books by Jane Austen, I love to read F. Scott Fitzgerald’s work, and my favorite author is Harper Lee. I find memoirs fascinating, and I read 15 of them one year. I love reading about others’ lives, seeing that even famous and successful people have struggles and work to be better humans. I struggle with some chronic health issues and seeing that other people face challenges with grace and courage inspires me to attempt to move forward with grace and a large amount of intestinal fortitude.

I could go on forever about how reading shaped me, molded me into a productive member of society, and so forth, but reading just makes me human. I can understand another person’s pain because I’ve read, I can express elation at someone’s success because I’m a reader. I interact effectively with the world because I’m a reader.