The Great Yogurt Battle of 2015

I thought today was going to be a pretty normal, low-key day. I got up early, let the dogs out, guzzled coffee with reckless abandon, and then began making Opie’s lunch.

(It is interesting to note that a lot of people have found that last bit horrifying, as if I have single-handedly set the feminist movement back 50 years by packing my husband’s lunch. Here’s the thing: It’s not like he forces me to do this; if it were up to him, he’d cheerfully buy a hotdog or something equally horrifying every day. I like making his lunch. But I digress…)

Anyway I got out a yogurt, like I always do, and this is what I saw:

 

Please note the expiration date in the upper left corner--MARCH 11th!!.

Today, in case anyone isn’t aware, is March 12^th.

To be honest, Opie probably wouldn’t have noticed or cared.  He maintains that the expiration date is more of a suggestion than a rule and that things are fine a few days beyond.

Which is, of course, crazy talk.

But the real problem was that I bought that yogurt yesterday.

I bought the yogurt that expired on March 11^th ON March 11^th. Or, to be more precise, the grocery store tricked me into buying their leftover, hovering-on-the-edge-of-spoilage yogurt by pushing it to the front of the case and rightly assuming I wouldn’t check.

The miscreants!

Some people can let these little things go, throw the yogurt away, and continue with their day. I’ve often wondered what it’s like to be one of those people...

I immediately checked all of the yogurt I bought yesterday, loudly cursing at each new March 11^th expiration date. “Robbed!” I muttered to myself, storming around the kitchen and waving my hands in the air. “I’ve been robbed and cheated and I’m not going to stand for it!”

At moments like these I can actually hear my friend, Martha, in my head saying “Kimberly, the yogurt was what? $4.00? Get over it!”

“There’s a principle involved here!” I assured the invisible Martha. “I’m not going to sit back while, once again, corporate America rips hard-earned money out of the hands of a working family! I’ll get over it when I see justice done.”

And it was on fire with this righteous indignation that I packed up the yogurt, found my receipt and stormed back to the grocery store like a woman on a mission.

As I approached the customer service counter and the teenage boy behind it, though, I heard Opie’s voice in my head urging courtesy and calm, reminding me that getting banned from the only grocery store in town would be a disaster of epic proportions.

So, I calmly put my yogurt and my receipt on the counter and explained my dilemma. “I bought these yesterday,” I said. “And they all expired yesterday.”

He stared at me like I had a grown a second head.

 “I don’t want my money back,” I assured him.  “I just want to exchange this for some yogurt that isn’t expired.”

And this clearly is a situation not covered by the grocery store customer service training manual because he just kept staring at me…and I began to wonder if I had somehow gone all Tower of Babel on him and started speaking in a strange language.

“I’d like to exchange the yogurt.”  I said again in the clearest English I could manage.

Which is when he called this other young whippersnapper of a girl over for help.

I explained the situation to her and she raised her eyebrows skeptically. “Do you have the receipt?”

I pointed it out to her and she began examining it and the yogurt in question like she was reviewing government documents for the CIA.

After a few minutes of this, I said “I don’t mean to be obnoxious,” (which is usually a pretty good indication that I am, in fact, about to be obnoxious) “But I don’t understand what you think is really going on here. I mean, I can assure you that I’m not the head of some underground black market yogurt-scam ring. I’m not trolling grocery store after grocery store trying to con my way to millions, 4 yogurts at a time.  I just want some yogurt that won’t kill me.”

“I don’t think it’s going to kill you,” she said.

And I kind of wanted to punch her in the face. Instead I smiled coolly and said “You never know. I have a really high intolerance for spoiled dairy products.”

At which point the manager came over to see what the heck was going on. I explained for the third time and he stared at the two employees like they were crazy.

I’m not going to lie, I felt vindicated.

“Of course you can exchange it,” he told me. “It shouldn’t even have been on the shelf.”

And I was going to stick my tongue out at the two young whippersnappers who’d been treating me like a freak show but then I remembered that I’m a Christian and an adult and ostensibly a role model.

Besides, they’d already turned away.

So, the short version is, justice was done.  I got my yogurt (although they were out of Caramel Macchiato and I had to settle for Café Late…but that’s ok, I’m breezy, I let these kind of things go) and all is right with the world.

But now I have to know—am I the only person in the world who would take the yogurt back? Would other people have eaten the yogurt? Would you just have thrown it out? Please will someone assure me that I’m not alone on the battleground for yogurt justice?

Going Postal

If you know me at all, you know I suck at putting things in the mail.

Say, for example, I need to send a niece or nephew or other beloved child in my life a card. I consider it a success if that card gets to them within a four-week window of the actual date of whatever event they’re celebrating. If there's a package and trip to the post office involved, I need a 6 week window minimum.

And that's with children. With adults, who are better emotionally equipped to deal with disappointment, all bets are off.

My friend Martha's birthday is in the beginning of October and I finally gave up on ever sending her her present; I just gave it to her when I saw her over Christmas.

So when I made it to the post office on January 16^th with the Christmas package for my friend Eric's children, I considered it a screaming success.

At first.

Here's what happened

I took the Christmas package and another package containing a return to the post office in the early afternoon, thinking this would be a less crowded time. Unfortunately there were approximately 7462 people in line ahead of me.

Which was odd since there’s only about 17,000 people in this entire town.

But I knew if I left I wouldn’t make it back to the post office for at least another month so I gritted my teeth and waited. And waited. And waited some more.

I got to the counter and put the return up first because it was ridiculously heavy. Once they got that weighed and in the bin, the problems started.

“Ma'am, we can't mail this,” the clerk said, pushing the Christmas package back to me.

To be honest,  at first I was a little more focused on the fact that he “ma’am-ed” me. Ma’am? Who is the joker calling ma’am? He’s got to be 10 years older than me! When I got past that insult, I just assumed he was practicing some form of subtle postal humor and smiled in that ‘I don’t get the joke but am willing to pretend that’s funny’ sort of way and pushed the package back toward him.

“It’s just going to St. Louis,” I said.

“Ma’am, that’s a wine box,” he said.

“There’s not wine in it,” I assured him.  “You can even open it up and check.”

“But it says wine all over the box,” he countered. “We can’t do it.”

“Is there any chance you’re making this up just to irritate me?”  I asked.

And he gave me that same 'I don’t get the joke but am willing to pretend that’s funny smile.' Touche, postal clerk, touche.

“No ma’am,” he said.  “They won’t accept it.”

Ever vigilant to the changing nuances of the English language, I couldn’t help but notice he had switched from “we can’t” to “they won’t.” As if he was somehow distancing himself from the nefarious power structure of the postal service.

“Here’s the thing,” I told him. “From my perspective, you are they. So, if you take it they will have taken it and I bet the rest of them assume that they have somehow given approval for it. And then everyone’s happy.”

“It doesn’t work that way,” he assured me.

And then I pulled out the big guns. “Sir,” I said. “Would it help at all if I told you these are Christmas presents?” And then before he could interrupt, “That’s right. Christmas presents.  For children. Children who already think I suck because Christmas was 3 weeks ago. If I have to schlep this all the way home, and wait until we somehow have a box that didn’t previously contain alcohol, repackage them and bring it all the way back here, those poor children might not get their presents until Easter! Wouldn’t the kindlier response be to just write NOT WINE all over this box and let those children have a tiny bit of joy?”

He was, I’m sad to report, completely unimpressed.

“Ma’am,” he said somewhat firmly. “I really need to help the next person in line.”

It is interesting to note that these kind of situations are the exact reason we have so many empty wine boxes at our house.

So, to summarize, I suck at putting things in the mail, I’m great at drinking wine, and Eric’s kids got their Christmas presents at the end of January…which, considering my 6 week window, is right on time.

Fuch's Dystrophy And, Of Course, Drama

In case you think my somewhat over-the-top reactions are limited to my fur family, I thought I'd share that Opie has been diagnosed with Fuch's Dystrophy.

Which sounds like some disgusting STD, I know.  I mean, with a name like FUCH'S, everybody's mind probably went to the same place.

But it's not...it's an eye disease.  In fact it's a "degenerative disease of the corneal endothelium."  Which basically means that the cells in his corneas are dying off.

You know how many people have it?

Less than 1% of the population.

You know how I handled this news?

Not well.

But this is partially because Opie came home from his annual eye appointment, told me he had this disease that could eventually BLIND him, and had none of the relevant details.

"Did you ask the doctor how fast it progresses?" I demanded.

"No."

"Did you ask him what warning signs we should be looking out for?"

"No."

"Did you ask him the odds of it getting worse?  Or the percentage of people who end up needing cornea transplants?  Or how many of those transplants are successful?"

"No."

And that's when I lost it a little.

"Did you ask what we're going to do on the day you WAKE UP BLIND?"  I screamed.  "Did you happen to mention that you're a computer programmer and that if you are suddenly STRUCK BLIND you'll probably lose your job and we'll lose the house and then we'll end up living in my car and considering I have a Miata and we have a Rottweiler, things are going to get pretty damn crowded!  Did you go over any of THAT?"

Surprisingly, no, none of that came up in the doctor's office.

Equally surprising was the fact that Opie chose that moment to remind me that Bubba is only half Rottweiler and didn't I think we'd live in his car since it's bigger?

Which means the most surprising thing of all is that I didn't beat him to death.

Especially when he followed that up with "It's probably no big deal.  We'll just have to wait and see what happens."

My reply was so obscene that I don't actually feel comfortable sharing it.  Suffice it to say that I decided NOT to wait and see what happens and instead asked around and got the name of the top eye guy in Tulsa, and made an appointment.

"You don't have to go with me," Opie said quickly...which probably sounds suspicious unless you realize I have a weird thing about eyeballs…I’m like Rachel in Friends, I freak out when I go to the eye doctor…I can’t even put drops in my own eyes.  About 10 years ago, I had a really disgusting case of Pink Eye and every night I had to drive over to my parents’ house and have my mom put the drops in…which is embarrassing enough but I needed those drops twice a day.  So, in the mornings, I had to have the English department secretary do it.  This is slightly mitigated by the fact that the secretary in question was also my godmother, but still EMBARASSING.

But my husband was in need so it was time for me to face my demons..."Of course I'm going." I said. "What kind of wife would I be if I didn't support you?"

To be honest, I'm not sure sitting in a chair, gripping the arms with white-knuckled intensity, moaning every time they poked something in his eye, and mumbling about needing to vomit was the type of support he was looking for but I was present that's what counts.

Besides, I think constantly asking me "You ok over there?" probably took his mind off his own troubles.

Especially when he told the nurse about my unfortunate eye aversion--complete with eye drops story--and she decided that she was going to single-handedly cure me of a lifelong neurosis.

"Oh, honey, it's easy!" She said, grabbing my head and tilting it back.  "All you have to do is...."

And I'm pretty sure she said some words after that but since she also basically ASSAULTED me with eye drops I have no idea what any of those words were.

"Honey?" Opie asked gently. "Are you all right?"

And it took awhile for me to answer, largely because it's difficult to fight back waves of nausea AND plot the nurse's bloody death at the same time. "Call the police," I finally mumbled. "Tell them I've been the victim of a drive by eye dropping."

And then things got ugly.

The nurse came back and dilated Opie's eyes so we could finally get in to see the specialist and at almost the exact same second, the specialist got called away for some eye-related emergency (his office is connected to the hospital for just such a situation).

I tried to be unselfish and compassionate, I really did.  I tried to think about the poor person with the eye emergency (though I desperately tried not to speculate on the nature of the emergency because that made me feel even sicker). That worked for the first hour.

By the time we hit hour number 2 of waiting, I had forgotten all about the other person and was bordering on insane with rage.

If I hadn't been woozy and half-sick by all the eye-related paraphernalia, I might have gone on a wild rampage.

A situation made infinitely worse by the fact that when the doctor finally came in, he decided the best way to ease the tension was to turn into it a comedian.

He did the exam, ran a few other tests and then confirmed that Opie is in the beginning stages of Fuch’s Dystrophy.

I, of course, had a few questions.  “Does it progress quickly or slowly? Is there anything we can do to help?  Is it something we need to monitor closely or do we just have to wait and see what happens?"

"Yes" he said and laughed.

Laughed.

I think, at that moment, Opie had never been more afraid in his life.  Afraid that I would actually leap from my chair and pummel the doctor with a huge plastic eyeball.

However, this clown came highly recommended as the top eye specialist in Tulsa so I tried to restrain myself. Instead of punching him right in the face, I had to settle for giving him my best teacher look.

The one that says "I know you think you're funny but I don't think you're funny at all. And the only thing saving your life right now is the fact that I'm so scared of prison."

It worked.

He got serious immediately and explained that, unfortunately, there's no way to tell how fast things will progress, we just have to keep an eye on his cell count and see. Sometimes it goes slowly, sometimes quickly--there's just no predicting the disease.  Some people need a complete cornea transplant within five years of being diagnosed and some people never notice any ill effects at all.

So, the long and the short of it is that we went through all the drama for NOTHING.

Opie was right, we just have to wait and see what happens (and, yes, that did hurt a little to say!) and we'll need to keep meeting with the specialist at least once a year.

But next time I'm taking my pepper spray and if anyone comes near me with a bottle of eye drops, you'll probably all see me on the news.

 These don't look like bad eyes, do they?