When Good Leftovers Go Bad: A Study in Mold and Sanity

Assessing the condition of my refrigerator is a good way for me to determine exactly how busy/blue/tired/energetic/perky/efficient/sane/whatever I have been recently. Like many moms, I get busy and ignore the need for self-assessment so the ability to discern my own emotional state merely by opening the refrigerator is rather convenient. (And I don’t think I’m alone in this – can I hear an “AMEN”?)  If the interior is reasonably clean and the food is relatively fresh, I’m pretty optimistic about the day and can cheerfully and efficiently set aside those pesky concerns about progeny or spouses inadvertently poisoning themselves due to the tendency to grab and snorf edibles before actually observing or smelling said edibles.

However, I think it’s safe to say we can throw any little false efficiency scenarios right into our handy dandy 50 gallon trash today, because I just checked my fridge and discovered that certain no-longer-edibles have taken on entirely new states of being and are now capable of sentience. I paused with the fridge door open when I heard frightening conversational noises, and soon realized that we really need to move the TV out of the kitchen area because my leftovers seem to have become laden with B western dialogue as well as bacteria –

“Howdy, Broc.”

“How’s it goin’, Squashed?”

“Not bad. Gotta move a herd of pasta over to the south 40. Wanna lend a hand? Might have a few stray meatballs to round up, too – they’ve rolled out and gotten fuzzier than a cowpie in spring.”

“Happy to help, Broc, but how ‘bout that popped Tupperware lid over by old man Casserole’s place? We oughta burp that before them bad apples break through and infect the herd.”

“Time to get on it, Squashed! Saddle up that there rotten potato and let’s ride out.”

And then I heard – Star Trek? Seriously?

“Captain!  There’s a mold cluster here that I’ve never seen before!”           

“On screen, Mr. Chickenhov.”

“Great scott! Look at this, Mr. Spritzer! It appears to be . . .”

“Yes, Captain. It’s the infamous Unidentifiable Leftovers Cloud of Death. Life forms in the Cloud are generated spontaneously, behave unpredictably, and are usually deadly. Sliming their enemies is the only known form of communication. It would be illogical for us to survive any contact.”

“Bones!  Do we have a bacteria killer that will purge this thing?”

“Dang it, man! I’m a Doctor, not a garbage man! Get a scrubber and do it yourself!”

“Spritzer and Chickenhov, there appears to be no way around. We’ll have to burn through. Warp speed ahead!”  (Over the com.) “Spitty! We need more power!”

“This is all the juice she’s got, Captain! I’m doin’ all I can!”

“Incoming sludge! Set spatulas on stun! All decks brace for impact!”

*SPLORK*

But you get my point, which is . . . Sheesh – what is my point?  Oh, yes. That a mom’s emotional condition and level of functioning can be gauged and/or assessed by the condition of her refrigerator. As you see here, simply attempting to purge the fridge affected my delicate maternal equilibrium. So, faithful and loving husbands, do your wife a favor:  Check that fridge, check it often, check it thoroughly, and throw out anything evil-looking and anything that speaks (this does not include teenagers foraging in the interior). Don’t forget to wear your protective mask. And do NOT even THINK of eating the dark chocolate hidden in the crisper. EVER.

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Selfie Time. Be Still My Heart –

WordPress wants my photo. Badly. Every time I log in, they ask. I like to assume it’s because I’m (pick one) gorgeous, charming, aged, not millennial, parent of millennials, rocking the baby boomer thing, incredibly popular, moderately hot, screamingly sexy, or possibly ___ (provide your own adjective).

As much as I would like to take it as a personal compliment, I suppose they nag all their new bloggers so I remain unmoved. I have been calmly searching my technological devices for a recent and decent photo to satisfy the obviously passionate need of my new blog site, and have discovered something weird.

Current photos of solo me are nonexistent.

I have a gazillion photos of my family, friends, events, and scenic views. I have saved memes (“I don’t always drink wine . . . But when I do, the day ends in the letter y.”), saved quotes (“You can’t go back and change the beginning, but you can start where you are and change the ending” – C.S. Lewis), pictures of our pets (four of them – not four pictures, four pets; we’ll address that another time), and the occasional amazing photos of cakes and cupcakes my youngest daughter has decorated. I am in photos with others, but nothing croppable. Huh.

So I dug through my bathroom cabinet, found and applied my rarely used make-up in a manner my cosmetically gifted older daughter would find utterly appalling (I plan to wash my face before she sees me) and began to take selfies. Many of them, trying to get a good one, Because – wow.

I appear to have aged. What are the odds? I feel a perky and youthful 30 inside, but I promise you that the outside most certainly does not match the inside.

Of course, I am aware that I have white hair. No self-deception there. I once had a friend who whispered that her decidedly graying husband saw only blond when he looked in the mirror. Since I was originally an auburn-level ginger, I could not claim as blond the white strands that started appearing before 30 and created a snow-on-the-mountain effect by 40. Matter of fact, a friend once hauled me into an unlit traveling TARDIS (I kid you not) to shine a sonic screwdriver blacklight on my head. Does my hair, in fact, glow in the dark? Yes. Yes, it does – but I digress. Even though the white was premature, I have apparently grown into it now. And I am a bit surprised and slightly appalled to discover that my eyes and other parts of my face have become riddled with smile lines. Many smile lines, going all different directions. One might even say my face smiles no matter the expression, and not just around the mouth.

And now you know why I appear mildly shell-shocked in my photo. So this is me, in make-up (don’t expect to see that again), wearing reading glasses, taking a selfie. Now, look back to the first paragraph – did you pick an adjective? I most certainly did. After pondering my inside, my outside, and my photos, I have finally decided I’m a hot, rockin’-the-boomer-vibe babe. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.