Buffalo Gal

Let's agree up front to skip any Freudian interpretations on this one.
I grew up at the very end of the penny candy/ corner store era. With one penny you could buy a Bazooka, with a nickel a pack of Juicy Fruit. Thus, it seemed to me, if one piece of gum was good, many pieces were great.
The height (or low depending on your perspective) came in the early 70s when Big Buddy gum came in foot long sticks. I could chew two simultaneously (frequently peeling busted bubbles from my eyebrows).
This little passion was carried largely unabated into adulthood, although never in polite company.
Braces in my fourth decade meant going cold turkey for three years. I did it without a patch or hypnosis, although I did check the Yellow Pages for support groups.
Several months ago my dentist gave me the green light to chew whatever I please. Aware of the value of my newfound sobriety, I resumed gum chewing at reasonable levels.
While cruising the Dollar Store in Brunswick I spotted my absolute favorite -- Adams Fruit Flavored Chiclets -- at a dollar for each package of six boxes. There were eight packages on the rack at that moment, eight in my car five minutes later.
I secreted them in the top drawer of my writing desk, a hidden pick-me-up for rough passages. Weeks went by with the quiet comfort of their unopened presence.
But early this morning I cracked one pack, and the 12 pieces carried me through missing a deadline. It took another 12 when the computer repair man discovered my daughter had inadvertantly ripped the Wi-Fi antennae off her brand new computer and he could not complete the job for which we hired him. Twelve more for the unplanned trip to the Mainland to replace the whole card and another 12 for my fourth day without T-Mobile delivering the replacement phone promised three days ago. I slowed to half a pack when the cat left a hairball on my notes, but scooped up the remaining pack and a half through today's chapter of a medical billing fiasco that has been stretching on for months.
So there it is, eight hours, 72 Chiclets.
But the other seven six packs are still in my drawer. I am an adult now.

Copyright 2004 Judi Griggs

Buffalo Gal Judi Griggs I'm a communications professional, writer, cynic, mother, wife and royal pain. The order depends on the day. I returned to my hometown in November 2004 after a couple of decades of heat and hurricanes. I can polish pristine copy, but not here. This is my morning exercise -- 20-minute takes without a net or spellcheck. It's easier than sit ups for me. No guarantee what it will be for you. Clicking on the subscribe link will send you an email notice when each new entry is posted.
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Previous Entry :: Next Entry Read/Post Comments (0) Share on Facebook		2004-07-14 4:25 PM A 72 Chiclet day Let's agree up front to skip any Freudian interpretations on this one. I grew up at the very end of the penny candy/ corner store era. With one penny you could buy a Bazooka, with a nickel a pack of Juicy Fruit. Thus, it seemed to me, if one piece of gum was good, many pieces were great. The height (or low depending on your perspective) came in the early 70s when Big Buddy gum came in foot long sticks. I could chew two simultaneously (frequently peeling busted bubbles from my eyebrows). This little passion was carried largely unabated into adulthood, although never in polite company. Braces in my fourth decade meant going cold turkey for three years. I did it without a patch or hypnosis, although I did check the Yellow Pages for support groups. Several months ago my dentist gave me the green light to chew whatever I please. Aware of the value of my newfound sobriety, I resumed gum chewing at reasonable levels. While cruising the Dollar Store in Brunswick I spotted my absolute favorite -- Adams Fruit Flavored Chiclets -- at a dollar for each package of six boxes. There were eight packages on the rack at that moment, eight in my car five minutes later. I secreted them in the top drawer of my writing desk, a hidden pick-me-up for rough passages. Weeks went by with the quiet comfort of their unopened presence. But early this morning I cracked one pack, and the 12 pieces carried me through missing a deadline. It took another 12 when the computer repair man discovered my daughter had inadvertantly ripped the Wi-Fi antennae off her brand new computer and he could not complete the job for which we hired him. Twelve more for the unplanned trip to the Mainland to replace the whole card and another 12 for my fourth day without T-Mobile delivering the replacement phone promised three days ago. I slowed to half a pack when the cat left a hairball on my notes, but scooped up the remaining pack and a half through today's chapter of a medical billing fiasco that has been stretching on for months. So there it is, eight hours, 72 Chiclets. But the other seven six packs are still in my drawer. I am an adult now. Copyright 2004 Judi Griggs Read/Post Comments (0) Previous Entry :: Next Entry Back to Top