Not My Thing

Some things are just not meant to be.

Michael Jordan will never be a baseball player, Shaq will never be a rapper, and I will never buy Dr. Pepper without something going terribly awry.

Circa March 1, 2008 I bought a 12 pack of Dr. Pepper. It was a prized treasure. Slowly, I rationed each can to stretch the goodness as long as possible. By March 7, there were three cans left. By March 7, I also had to go out of town. But I knew that there waiting for me when I got back, would be three happy little cans, anxious to be consumed. Or so I thought. Upon my return to my dorm room, I found the cans MIA from their hiding place under my bed. My first suspect: the roommate. I watched her suspiciously and analyzed the contents of the trash can, before she confessed that someone across the hall had come in and drank them. Every. Last. One. This Dr. Pepper delinquent promised to pay me back (she didn’t) but failed to see the opportunity costs of a Dr. Pepper when you live in a dorm. They’re worth more than money. No one had cars to access a normal grocery store and there was not a drop of caffeinated beverage sold on campus. I could have bartered to get an iPod with enough Dr. Pepper.

That was incident number one. Incident number two involves another seemingly average 12 pack of Dr. Pepper. This time it’s in an apartment, and instead of stowed under my bed, they were on top of my fridge. Sierra, oh my lovely Sierra, decided to take a Dr. Pepper. But reaching on top she didn’t get just one Dr. Pepper, she unleashed an army of them. Catastrophically, all the cans started rolling off the top of the fridge, bouncing explosively on the kitchen floor. Streams of Dr. Pepper sprayed out like a dancing fountain and flooded the floor with 23-flavored foam. The counter was sticky. The floor was sticky. The wall was sticky. The couch in the other room, somehow, was sticky. There were only three survivors: Sierra and 2 cans of DP.

Two disasters is bad, but just a weird coincidence. Three disasters is a curse.

After winter break, I found a liter of Dr. Pepper, buried in the back of the fridge, a forgotten remnant of my birthday party. It was like discovering I had twenty bucks in my back pocket. With a little too much glee, I grabbed the bottle and opened it. And squeezed it. Plastic must be flimsier than it used to be, because my little love squeeze caused Old Faithful to erupt. This time Dr. Pepper rained all over my clothes and leather boots (it came out – no worries mom!) Hence, Disaster Number Three.

Three disasters is a curse. Four disasters must mean this is a plague that I will pass on to my children and can only be stopped by magic or a really good horoscope.

This week I bought another liter.

I should have known.

After getting the groceries out of the car, I was so excited; I ditched the cup and went straight for the bottle.

I don’t even know how it happened. But the second I unscrewed the lid, there was an explosion. A lateral 3 foot spray of soda fizzed like fireworks. The only sensible reaction was to scream. So I did. It helped. And once again, the counter was sticky. And so was the floor. And the wall. And my face. I commenced to do my previously arranged visiting teaching as a very sticky, but tasty, girl.

By now, I’ve learned my lesson. It took Michael Jordan a really low batting average, and Shaq a couple really bad CD’s for them to get the hint. So after a thief, a meteor shower, and two eruptions, it is finally clear Dr. Pepper just isn’t my thing.

I think I’ll just stick to juice.