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I have heard someone say that men can’t ever find anything in the refrigerator, so someone should invent a one that is 8 feet wide and 8” deep, that way everything is right in front.  I confess that I really like this idea.  It’s not that I can’t find anything; it’s that I don’t feel like playing Tetris to get at the pickles or god knows what else in the back of the fridge.

In keeping with earlier lesson this week in the “Art of Doing Laundry,” I figured everyone would benefit from my “June Cleaver-like” management of my kitchen and fridge.  First of all, I am a hoarder of canned foods, spices and all sort of well-intended groceries that I usually end up losing interest in cooking with.  I know it shouldn’t be possible, but I believe I have even found canned goods in the pantry that have expired.  I know I have had a can or two of mandarin oranges balloon up and burst open!  Thank god I didn’t eat those!  I might have died!

Then there is my refrigerator…if anyone really wants to know what kind of housekeeper I am, they can look inside the fridge and know immediately.  It is always stocked, although a great amount is probably no longer edible—and quite possibly poisonous.  There are more condiments in the door and the top shelf than a person can find at Publix.  Usually there is something spilled somewhere that is waiting for my attention.  I probably have things in the back of the fridge that I just bought again at the store, because I was too lazy to move things around and take an inventory.

I have much guilt about the vegetable soup in my crisper that was once fresh veggies that I failed in my good intentions to eat.  I can’t throw anything out, though, until I know that it’s gone bad, then I’m justified.  Before I put the rancid food in the garbage I look over my shoulder to see if out of nowhere my mother has appeared to look upon me with shame and disgust at the terrible, terrible waste.  She is the original June Cleaver!  I mean for God’s sake—she had the audacity to tell me the other day that she “loves consolidating things in the fridge, like jars of pickles and salad dressing.”  Really?  This is fun?  That’s strange, I have never found any of that kind of stuff fun, what’s wrong with me that I am perfectly okay with an overstuffed, disgusting refrigerator that I ignore because I can close the door?  I actually get irked when I have to clean out the penicillin to make room for a run to the grocery store.  That’s when the waste gets profoundly out of hand—surely my mother has sniffed my naughtiness wafting over the four miles to her house, and is insanely aghast and ashamed of her youngest offspring.  “Whose child is this, surely she can’t be mine!  They must have accidentally switched her with some food junky, hoarder at the hospital!”  Too bad, mom!  You are stuck with me and my wasting ways!  And thus, my refrigerator is a little peek into the chaos that lives within this decorator’s attempt at only a polished exterior!

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