I dedicate this post to my mom and Dave.
When I find myself posting about being giggly and immature, it kind of blows me away that the grown-up CKD is way more fun than her childhood counterpart.
People tend to be surprised that I describe myself as “shy” and am dead serious about that. “But you love parties! And blab all about yourself on the Interweb!” Yes, true. But getting to a point where I can make eye contact with strangers or not flip out when everything isn’t just so was a long journey. I spent much of 1981 with my head buried in my mom’s neck, and wasn’t much better by the time school rolled around. One-on-one I was fine. Talking in class? Uh, no thanks. My mom kindly refers to me as a quiet, serious child. I think the technical term is “high-maintenance and annoying as all shit.” Let me look that up and get back to you.
I was intense and OCD about a lot of things. Take laundry, for example. Once I was able to reach the knobs on the washer and dryer, the family laundry became one of my chores around the house. I was meticulous about sorting, of course, but folding was where my crazy really came out.
I wore a uniform to school, which meant my weekly laundry was 5 white blouses, 5 pairs of white knee socks, a few pairs of blue PE shorts, a God awful plaid jumper and of course my undies. Weekend clothes included maybe some Guess acid-wash jeans and a some dork-ass t-shirt my parents bought me from a museum.
So, you’d think I’d just hang up the blouses and jumper, maybe fold the underwear and pair up the socks (or just throw them all in a drawer) and be done in 20 seconds, right? Oh no. No no no no no! Little CKD had a process. And if you interfered in this process she would freak the fuck out BECAUSE SERIOUSLY, THAT LITTLE GIRL WAS NUTS.
First, there was the folding of underwear. I would fold my white little girl version of granny panties first (this was before thongs could be found in the toddler department, so underwear was only slightly smaller than my gym shorts), and then the colors. The undies were always arranged in piles of three. I don’t remember the reason behind that, but I do know that if my mom touched it I’d hiss or cry or react in some other totally normal way.
Next up? Socks, of course. White knee socks should be easy, correct? Just throw two together…oh sweet Jesus NO! Have you learned nothing yet? You know how you socks take on a certain shape based on which foot you have worn it? You guessed it: I would pair up the socks based on that to ensure my toes’ maximum comfort.
I haven’t even begun to describe the ritual Hanging of the Blouses, nor the care and love that went into folding my parents’ clothes.
Exhausted yet? Try raising this lunatic. Try reasoning with a nine year-old that the world will not end if her socks don’t match, or the grocery store is out of her favorite yogurt. Oh, did I mention I only ate ONE SPECIFIC BRAND AND FLAVOR OF YOGURT (Dannon mixed berry fruit-at-the-bottom, it had a blue lid, in case you were wondering) and if you dared suggest I try another one I’d all but crumple up on the floor and cry?
Man, I hope someone who wants to date me reads this.
Anyway, I guess my extremely long-winded point here is that yes, I am a ridiculous idiot who giggles over a bag of peanuts and loudly exclaims, “HEY! Who wants a NUTSACK?” But would you really want to hang out with Crazy Laundry Freakshow Girl? Yeah, me neither.