Spanning the years between 1988 and 1992, I had a daily ritual of hiding half chewed vitamins in these baskets. My hatred of those vitamins rivaled only that which I held for the god awful Cockatoo woman on Zoobilee Zoo. The purples especially. I wasn't about to be taken for a fool just because some disgusting tablet vaguely resembled the shape of a prehistoric creature. So I'd pop it in my mouth in front of my mom and slowly begin to chew.
Then I'd sneak off to the living room to empty my mouth and put Dino where he so obviously belonged: adhered with spit to some of the finest palatial homes of the 1980s. Some may call this the early renderings of an eating disorder. I call it genius. I would have rather experienced that awful flavor for an extra few minutes than ever have to swallow the agony of defeat.
The jig was up when we moved and it came time to pack the magazines.
Twenty years later, I am still a jerk when it comes to taking my vitamins. Every morning, I get so beleaguered by the endless stream of tasks at hand-- getting out of bed, having to put clothes on, washing my face again-- that the last thing in the free world that I want to do is gulp down seven capsules of various shapes, sizes, and smells. Good lord, it's six in the morning, haven't I done enough?!
P.S. This is the number one hit on a Google image search that I did for this post. I am glad it's a thing.