I don't really care much for pop. You know those little baby (pussy) cans they sell as mixers? That's about all I can handle in one go. The bubbles line my stomach and lift me off the ground otherwise.

On my Dad's side of the family Coke it is treated with as much reverence as Jesus and hockey. It's especially meh for me because Coke has caramel color in it – a no no for celiacs. (Also, that horrible ad campaign they showed before movies with the talking eyeballs and tongue – grody. Not good. And I've been taking an Advertising course for 6 consecutive weeks so I would know.)

BUT, in my grand quest to not let gluten kick sand in my eyes constantly, I've been looking more into products I'd deemed "bad" 15 years ago when I was first diagnosed. And guess what came up roses when I googled it? Coke. Gluten. Free. I was pretty excited about this.

Nuv will not always have to get a clear soda when we go to the movies. And....well, there isn't any real crazy benefit from this other than I like saying shit like, "I haven't had this in 15 years," and watch people look up, give me a small smile and nod, and go back to whatever they were doing. It's a small victory I know, but it's mine, and I like it just fine.


Small girl Brooke never grew hair well. Bald as a baby for an eerily long time, it never grew too much more as I got older. When I was 6 I wore Mom's pantyhose on my head, with each leg sliced into three pieces so my "hair" could be flung around AND braided. Pocahontas yarn wig for Halloween? Fuck yes Gramma – between making that and inventing ice cream cones dunked in sprinkles, she was trophy worthy. In high school I shaved my head often so I never ever learned how to blow dry hair, curl hair, straighten hair or even comb hair. I'm grown now; it still slinks along out of my scalp at a snail's pace like it's SO HARD to give me something to scrape into an effing ponytail.

Shitty pseudo-segue go!

Being a latchkey kid is not the hotness for many reasons but the number one reason is no Mama at home to brush your hair. I cannot express how spine-tinglingly good it feels when somebody brushes my hair. It is IT for me. Last time I went to the hairdresser I bought this cheap, round, plastic bristled thing you slide on like a big ring in the shower to massage and hydrate your scalp. Let me tell you this – if the naked love of a product and how much it makes you sing Outkast songs loudly in the shower was represented in dollar form, this thing should have cost 1.7 billion dollars. Period. It is the greatest thing in the smallest way and the smallest way fits just perfectly in my heart.


The recent ham handed attempts at wrapping up these segments is a nod to the master of the last sentence, David Sedaris. God, I love that dude.