Last week I wrote about my bizarre OCD tendencies and generally uptight nature as a child. My dear friend and fellow blogger Cece requested the Yogurt Story as another illustration of how nutburgers I was. Cheaper than therapy, right?
This story is really proof Dave’s patience and good influence in my life, although at the time I thought it was child abuse.
As mentioned last week, I was partial to (read: completely obsessed with) one specific type of yogurt: Dannon Fruit-at-the-Bottom Mixed Berry. No other flavor (say an individual berry, as opposed to the mixed) was acceptable. As you can imagine, grocery shopping and menu planning was an absolute joy for my parents what with me being so easy-going. Really, they should get some sort of prize for not putting me up for adoption when I was 9.
I’m not entirely sure how it came about, but I think at some point Dave ate one of “my” yogurts and when I pitched a fit, he suggested I eat another one, or find some other snack. So what did I do? Retire to my room and pout. Sure, of course.
Fast forward to a week or so later, the yogurt supply has been replenished, along with other flavors since my parents are not freaks and eat more than two things. I head to the refigerator for the yogurt portion of my breakfast, grab one, open the lid, and begin stirring. Stirring was essential because the fruit was at the bottom (hence the name) and I needed an even distribution of berries. (Has the OCD thing become obvious enough at this point? Because it really should.)
As I’m stirring I notice that the color of what should be the berries is NOT RIGHT and begin freaking out, thinking it’s a bad batch or spoiled or something gross. But then I smell it and it’s…apple. This is where tiny CKD loses her mind and her tone of voice could only be described as HYSTERICAL AND CURRENTLY DYING.
“THIS IS NOT MY YOGURT!!!! WHEEEERRREEEE IS MYYYYY YOGUUUUURT???” I begin wailing as Dave laughs hysterically on the couch. It’s apparent to me that he is evil and must be thrown out immediately. Never mind that this is the man who taught me to swim and watches “Pee-Wee’s Playhouse” with me every Saturday. I am despondent and want him arrested.
My mom is trying to get ready for work and I burst into the bathroom where she is drying her hair. I remember this clearly because she didn’t even need to turn off the hair dryer to hear me shrieking. She finally turns it off, tells me to calm down, and comes into the living room to ask Dave what happened. He explains the innocent prank: he thought it would be funny to switch the yogurts out. Why? Oh, because his stepdaughter is clearly out of her mind and needs to snap out of it. Also, he grew up in a family of five boys; pranks were part of daily life. No big deal. My explanation? Because he is Satan and clearly was trying to give me a heart attack or get me to starve to death.
My mom tells me to grab another yogurt and continue getting ready for school. But can I let it go? Oh no no no no NO! I proceed to sulk, and open EVERY SINGLE YOGURT AND INSPECT THEM to make sure this won’t happen again. In retrospect, I think my mom probably stayed late at work just to avoid us.
At some point I started eating other foods and laughing and even playing my own pranks. But at that moment? High drama.