Nuts and Crackberries

    
"I will hug him and squeeze him, and call him 'George'."

It’s not a secret that I am perhaps just a titch emotional. I prefer Mathieu's description, that I just "have a lot of love to give."  I've also had recent conversations about the fact that I attach feelings to certain inanimate objects.  So, what if I choose the ugly, bumpy pumpkin at Halloween because I think he'll feel bad when no one chooses him to become a Jack-O-Lantern?  Or that I feel bad for just a moment when I cut open a bell pepper and find little bell peppers inside?  Or that I sleep with my Blackberry under my pillow, curled up in my hand.  I just have a lot of love to give!!!

These emotions existed in a different form when I was eight, and were often mistaken for, uh, I think the term used was "aggression." Because the first person who called me “Kari Berry” fell over backward in a silver metal cafeteria chair. This was a direct result of having a plastic sectional plate and a half-eaten sloppy Joe pressed into his face.  The second person would still be taking nourishment in liquid form, save that it was my cousin, Scott, who could run faster than I could. As he fled, he stammered that everyone likes berries because they’re sweet. Who knew Scooter was prophetic? They ARE sweet, especially BLACKBERRIES!!! 

The Pink Pearl (my Blackberry) arrived on Valentine’s Day, which is appropriate considering that it’s pink! (It’s pink! hehehe) Simply put, it has taken over my life. (And it’s pink! Hehehe) I am a willing hostage! In addition to Stockholm Syndrome, the Kari Berry has brought out many other signs of mental disorder and disruption. They haven’t added Crackberry Syndrome to the DSM (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders) yet, but I can identify the indicators:

1. Phantom Vibrating: I swear that I felt it vibrate. Hmmmm, I’m not even wearing it, that’s strange.

2. Paranoid Delusional Vibrating: I felt it vibrate. You don’t believe me! You’re just like everybody else. Who’s deleting my messages? I thought the foil would help. I KNOW it vibrated, I’m not crazy, YOU’RE crazy!!

3. Obsessive Compulsive Disorder: It’s there, it’s on my hip. I don’t have to check. I don’t have to move my hand to my holster again, it’s THERE. Just leave it alone, it’ll let me know if I get a message, just leave it…. DAMN. Why do I have to keep touching it??? Why?

4. Addictive Behavior: Nod and smile, then say, “Really, uh huh” like you’re listening. They’ll stop talking soon and you can check it. Don’t look away! Don’t touch the Berry! Stop sweating! Focus!!!! Smile and nod. You can check it soon. O.K. Start backing away, slowly. SLOWLY!! Turn….don’t forget to wave.....now GO!!! GO!!! RUN fatty!!! Check it, check it, check it. *Sigh*, that’s better. It’s all o.k. now. Everything is o.k.

5. Compulsive Shopping: She’s so cute, she deserves a……a holster!!! She looks so pretty. Now she needs a….a headset. Ah! She likes it! But she really needs the…the little furry cover that has bunny ears. No other Berry will have bunny ears. I should get the bunny ears. Should I get them? I should. She deserves them. I’ll get them. I think I’ll just go ahead and get them.

6. Attention Deficit Disorder: Wow, Facebook, that’s cool. I should check my messag….oh, Viigo, it has recipes and my horosco….a camera! I wanna take a picture of my feet and put it on faceboo…..oh, I have a text message, I should repl…..GPS! I am here, see the little box on the scree….Ground Beef, I can’t forget it so I’ll just write myself a little note right here with the notes applic….meeting reminder, look at my calend…..oh! Someone’s calling….where’s my headset….ooooooooh pretty flowers.

7. Depression: Service is down…again. Why me? Always. Oh well, it’s not like I’m important enough for them to fix it for me. I probably don’t even have any messages anyway. No one ever sends me anything unless it’s dumb….just dumb stuff from dummies. I’ll never know with service down…again.

8. Possessive Behavior: You wanna h-h-h-h-h-hold it? You wanna t-t-t-t-touch it? Why? I mean, here, I’ll hold it up and you can see it. No, don’t touch the screen. Maybe I should take it back. Here, just let me….uh….yah, that’s the click wheel, it’s delicate. You probably shouldn’t…..AHHHHHH GIVE IT BACK!! I WANT IT BACK!! DON’T TOUCH IT!!! EVER!!! It’s ok KB, it’s ok. I have you now. It’s just you and me….you and me.

9. Irrational Risk-Taking Behavior: I know I shouldn’t text and drive…..and I know I shouldn’t bring the Berry with me when I take a bath, it’s a humid environment. I wrap it in a towel and place it waaay in the corner of the counter. At least I’ll know where it is. SOUND----SPLASH. It vibrated. I can wait until I’m done….ya, I’ll just wait. But it’s not a big deal, I can reach it….I just have to stand up in the tub, place my hand on the side and reeeeeach over……almost got it….just a little….welcome to my spinal cord injury.

10. Dependent Personality Disorder: She’s next to the bed. She’s charging. She’s happy. She’s fine. She’s not going to forget about me overnight. But if I could just slide her under my pillow then she’ll be safer, protected and warm. I can grip her in my hand while I sleep…..and she will never leave me. I will hug her, and squeeze her, and call her the Kari Berry.

Scott was right, berries ARE sweet….and I'M nuts.

A Fistful of Melted Chocolate

Today, while driving, I jeopardized my safety and that of others to retrieve a canister of the most delectable wafer cookies on the planet from my backseat using an ice scraper. However irresponsible, the operation was a success that culminated with me licking the last few crumbs of joy off my fingers. I was then taken back to one of my first memories, featuring my Grandpa Bill, a ridiculous pink dress, and a fistful of melted chocolate.

It's Easter Sunday, 1979. I'm standing on the front seat of Big G's (Grandpa Bill's) Buick with my hand on his shoulder. I'm donning a dreadful, frou-frou dress made entirely of pink bunting, paired with a horribly thick and uncomfortable pair of white tights. Like most weekends, I'm about to take the 15 mile journey from Rockland, Idaho to my Grandparents' house in American Falls. Once arrived, I will be crowned Queen of Idanha Avenue and will serve as sovereign over the cable television, be lavished with sweets, and showered with limitless praise. We're poised for departure but, as usual, we're waiting on my grandmother. She's on the porch, blowing hundreds of goodbye kisses in her very chic, robin-egg blue polyester Easter suit. I'm feeling particularly impatient because I am fairly certain that there is an Easter basket the size of a wheelbarrow waiting for me 15 miles away. Big G gives me his famous impish grin and I reach over to admonish my grandmother with a honk of the horn. But the honk merely elicits a blithely wave from the porch. I have a mind to go out after her, but I'm hobbled by my tights that were made for a child whose crotch is located one inch above their knees (or for a child with much shorter legs, Mom!). So, I plunk myself down on the seat, press my chin into my chest and fold my arms. In his standard, Pavlovian reaction Big G starts rooting around behind him for something to appease me. What comes back over the seat (Insert hymns of angels) is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen: A giant chocolate bunny the size of my head. (more hymns) I stare at it for about thirty seconds before Big G says, "Go ahead Scrapper, giv'r what for!" (Haaaalelujah) But now, I'm perplexed. Do I eat the bunny, thus ending his existence here on Earth? Or do I hold him, and name him, and love him, and pet him like every bunny deserves? I choose the latter and within moments my ethereal chocolate bunny is all over my hands and the horrid dress. Big G tries to help by taking away the remainder of the carcass, which enables me to wipe my hands on the white tights. Outrageousness ensues on the porch when they see what I've done to myself. I barely notice, however, because by this time I have licked my fingers and realize there is nothing I want more in the world on Easter Sunday, 1979, than to EAT THAT CHOCOLATE. I do the only thing I can do, I run. I run as fast as my shrimpish tights will let me, licking my fingers desperately as I wobble. Inevitably, I am caught and my father potato sacks me into the house. Others recall that even whilst dangling over my father's shoulder, I continued licking the chocolate off my fingers. And it was delightful.

It is no less worth it (and no more graceful) thirty years later, when I'm foraging around in the cupboard for abandoned chocolate chips; or making inaudible sounds when someone gives me something new and chocolaty to try; or extracting a canister of wafer cookies from the backseat of my car with an ice scraper. Chocolate is just one of those few pleasures in life that, even if it's just for a moment, makes everything better. As I held my wafer cookie in my hand I could hear Big G's voice, "Go ahead Scrapper, giv'r what for!" And I did, and it was delightful.