Dried, crusty rice. Five Tupperware dishes of congealed noodles with sad, limp veggies. Molding asparagus. A half eaten dish of toddler ravioli (we don't even buy that stuff?!?) Gelled fish. Curdled Alfredo sauce. Who knows what that is.
Oh, yes. Every couple of months, my refrigerator turns into something that is highly embarrassing and more than a little frightening. And no matter how long I try to ignore the feast that would make maggots around the world happy...there comes a time when I just have to clean out that fridge.
So, I don my yellow rubber gloves. I pull the trash can up right next to the sink and dishwasher. And I set my nerves. Then, I pull out all those dishes; small and large, Saran wrapped, lidded, bowls, Ziploc bags, and restaurant take-home boxes. Throw away. Open and throw away. Open, scrape, grimace, and throw away. Rinse and shove in the dishwasher. Repeat until there is practically nothing left in the fridge, except that gallon of milk we bought yesterday. Oh, and the pears we bought yesterday, too.
I'm really not a dirty person. I like my house to be organized and tidy. I would never pass a white glove test, but clutter grates on my ever last nerve. Of course, with a husband that likes papers, I'm learning to deal with the clutter a little bit better. And with a son, I am learning that I don't have the time to clean every day. Not that I would, even if I didn't have a son, but that is beside the point. I think having a clean home is important, but I don't want it to detract from having time with my family. I definitely think I am somewhere in between total slob and psycho neat freak. And it is a happy place for me.
Now, I need to do something about those bananas on my counter that are sending out party invites to all the fruit flies in the whole Midwest!