oh my freakin' whee!

When I was just a tiny lass, my mom used to host bridge parties at our house once a month. Usually Daddy-O would take my brother and me to Muncie to see a movie, but on one occasion, he had to go out of town on business and we were allowed to stay at home.

Now, after the inevitable introductions and cheek-pinchings from Mom's friends, we were supposed to go to our rooms and entertain ourselves. I sat on my bed, trying to read, but the laughter from the living room was driving me insane. I didn't know what bridge was, exactly, but it sounded like fun.

GROWN-UP fun.

I finally stood up, smoothed down the front of my Hollie Hobbie nightgown, and trudged down the hall.

"What's wrong, honey?" Mom asked.

"I want Tommy Gray," I said. (Tommy Gray was my beloved, albeit aloof, half-Persian cat.)

"He's probably hiding; you know how he gets around strangers. Do you want a glass of water?"

Something caught my eye...something pink and shiny.

"What's that?" I asked, pointing.

"It's a drink called Tab."

"Can I have some?"

"I don't think you'd like it," Mom said.

"Is it beer?"

"No."

"So can I try it?"

"Just a small sip and then back to your room, okay?"

I took a drink from the proffered can. "Ugh!" I cried, handing it back immediately. "It tastes like pennies!"

Everyone laughed, and Mom kissed the top of my head. "Okay, off with you."

"Can I have some bridge mix?"

She sighed and dug out three pieces. "Here you go. Brush your teeth!" she called after my rapidly retreating back.

I returned to my bed and flopped down on my stomach. I wondered why adults drank such yucky-tasting stuff, and then the caffeine started working its magic (remember, I was 7, and I've always been a lightweight), and lo, an addict was born.

So you can imagine my delight when I went to Long's to buy People for my traditional Friday night soak and found...Tab Energy. I grabbed a four-pack and my magazine and made a beeline to the checkout stand.

I finished my first can about ten minutes ago. It doesn't taste like pennies anymore...more like a melted watermelon Jolly Rancher.

It's bright pink.

It's kind of nasty, yet strangely appealing.

And ordinarily I type about 65 words per minute, but I swear to you I'm typing about 90 right now. I don't remember the last time I felt this...alert.

With the help of this pretty pink can, I might just make it through next week's asscrackery after all.

Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!