My name is Kate, and Iâ€™m a TaB addict.
It started out simply enough: a can here and there. Nothing big. When I was living in the Midwest, there was always plenty of TaB around. Iâ€™d share one with my friends, and once I even gave some to my oldest kid.
That was then.
Now where I live thereâ€™s no TaB soda. None. Nada. Zip.
I crave it, man. I dream of TaB. Sometimes, when the sunrise reflects on the ocean in a heavenly pink amid the white caps of the breaking waves, it reminds me of a can of TaB. Man, I miss that stuff. I always beg people who come to visit me to bring some Tab with them. â€œHey,â€� Iâ€™ll tell them, â€œIâ€™ll pay you back. I just need you to get me some. Câ€™mon. Pleeeeeease?â€�
Some folks get it. My sister-in-law, for example, showed up with 4 12-packs in a spare suitcase. I was a happy camper, until I ran out.
Tomorrow Kelley gets here for a week. I needed an adult to accompany my daughter on her flight from Missouri and, since I have to buy a second ticket anyway, I figured Iâ€™d rather fly a friend out. After all, my birthdayâ€™s on Tuesday: what a way to treat myself, right? Kelley tells me sheâ€™s only bringing 3 cans of TaB. Three. Three!? Her carry-on is too small to fit more in. Man, talk about bummed out.
So, I guess Iâ€™m going to have to resign myself to going through withdrawals. I doubt Betty Ford has a program for this, which means Iâ€™ll have to go it alone.
Originally posted on Kate’s site 6.3.04.