Crying Over Spilled Diet Coke

You can identify smokers not only by the smoke and the smell, but by other telltale signs, including nicotine stains and accidental burns on their belongings. Although I don’t smoke, I carry plenty of reminders of my addiction, too.

My stains are not from cigarettes; they’re from Diet Cokes. And they are not just unattractive. They can be sticky to boot.

I’ve made no secret of my love affair with Diet Cokes. I drink Diet Cokes like a person with a kidney infection drinks water. My favorites, by far, are fountain Diet Cokes. I love nearly everything about fountain Diet Cokes … the round ice, the long straw and the insulated cup that stays cold for hours. I even have a mental GPS of all gas stations in two states where I can get a giant fountain Diet Coke for less than a buck.

I’ve mastered nearly everything about the fountain Diet Coke, except one: the lid. Lids confound me. They never fit the cup. Every time I buy a fountain Diet Coke, whether at a gas station or a fast food restaurant, the lid is askew and poised to pop off like a button on Homer Simpson’s pants. It doesn’t even matter whether I put the lid on or someone else does the honors. It’s always teetering on the edge of disaster.

Engineers can design computers the size of postage stamps, but can’t seem to design a snug lid. Perhaps it’s too much to ask for 89 cents. As a result, I spend almost as much time spilling fountain Diet Cokes as I do drinking them. The evidence is everywhere, including drink holders, rugs, shirts, pants and even keyboards.

If you get too close to me, then I’m likely to spill one on you, too. So beware of the dangers of second-hand sipping.

I Got a Caffeine Monkey on my Back

My name is Doug Bennett and I’m addicted to Diet Coke. For most of my life, this hasn’t presented much of a problem. But things have changed. I now find myself scouring downtown streets for just a few drops of the good stuff.

Let me explain.

When I first started working at Humana, we had a refrigerator stocked full of free drinks, including Diet Cokes. From now on, I will refer to this time as the golden years. Oh sure, there were a few hiccups. I can recall a few times when the lovely administrative assistants in government relations couldn’t stock them as quickly as I could drink them. But for the most part, we had a virtual endless oasis of brown nectar right at our fingertips.

Unfortunately, like GM and Chrysler before it, our refrigerator fell victim to the ailing economy. Juice and water survived. Diet Coke got the pink slip.

My world came crashing down around me. I felt confused, vulnerable and sleepy. Not to mention the fact that I’d need thousands of quarters to quench my thirst.

Even with a pocket full of change, finding a new supplier proved difficult. The soda machines in my building exclusively carry Cokes in plastic bottles. I prefer canned Cokes, which is a quirk I hadn’t really noticed until the refrigerator ran dry.

As a result, I was forced into the streets, broken and thirsty with a big caffeine monkey on my back. After a few days of emptiness and lukewarm bottles, I found a snack shop in the lobby of a building across the street that carries Diet Cokes in the can.

I wish this was a happy ending. But, like the government relations aides before them, the snack shop people can’t seem to keep pace with my ravenous consumption. On bad days, I turn the corner to find empty slots where Diet Cokes ought to be. The entrepreneur in me wonders how they could possibly let such a golden opportunity slip away.

Anyway, things might be finally looking up. One coworker is willing to sell me Diet Cokes at a discount to finance her wedding. Additionally, I hear the building is moving to canned sodas as part of its greening initiative. And who knows? If the automobile industry can recover, maybe the refrigerator can, too. In the meantime, I’ll see you on the mean streets.