I am fridge whore. I love them. So much that I have two. It is the only place I am organized. Every time one is opened it is like looking into a magazine; all labels facing outward, rows organized by type and purpose, leafy greens bursting from the drawers. The garage fridge is for the booze and overflow of Baby's milk, juice and yogurts...we haven't grabbed the wrong item yet!
I feel overcome with joy when I look into my fridge, like I am doing something as a mother that at least looks pretty and right.
My problem is that we are moving for the winter. Into a rental that has, gasp, One. Tiny. Fridge.
I am frozen with fright as I try to imagine a world where I have to take stuff out to get to the mustard squished way in the back between the Double Shot and goat cheese, that I actually forgot was back there because I can't see it. I start double buying things because I don't know they are there, the beer is warm because the milk gets first refusal, and I can't find what smells so bad! I get so frustrated that I stop going in there altogether, we start eating take out every night and become the typical family they find rotted in front of reruns of MASH.
At least we will be there for the winter...I can make an igloo in the back and all the neighbors will have Fridge Envy once again.
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