When there's nothing else to do, clean the refrigerator

I was born into a family of clean freaks.

My mother was the type of woman who cleaned for the cleaning lady, God forbid
the woman who traveled an hour by subway and bus to clean under our sofa should think we were dirty. My mother would catch worn clothing items before they hit the floor, spiriting them away to the hamper. Her highest insult, which she would mutter under her breath as if it were an affliction, was: “Oh, so and so, well, you know he’s not very clean.”

My sister is just as bad, if not worse. I have seen her pick up the shower
mat,swabbing the floor before the person in the shower was finished soaping up. I have also seen her on her hands and knees wiping the bottom of the shoes of the refrigerator repair man as he was buried shoulder-deep in lettuce and leftover Chinese food. He turned around, no doubt thinking it was the dog, only to find my sister spraying his shoe bottom with disinfectant and rubbing it with a paper towel. She smiled meekly, as did he.

Such is the countenance of the women in my family. Clearly I am from a
different genetic branch. Don’t get me wrong, I love a clean house. In fact my dream
living situation is closer to a hotel than a house, where they come in every day to tidy up and do the deep cleaning. It takes everything I have just to keep my house minimally fur-free, what with three shedding Smooth Fox terriers and one Siamese type cat who would rip my eyeballs out without a second glance if I tried to brush her.

Needless to say, it can be many months before I can muster the forces necessary to deal with the innards of the refrigerator. Between my roommate, who eats pizza and all the stuff one could think of putting on a pizza, and my own collections of endless leftovers, my fridge is a disaster zone of jars, vitamins, and Tupperware containers of every size and shape filled partway with foods that are barely recognizable.

My mother bought my fridge for me as a housewarming present many years ago.
That was her signature gift for any of us when we passed into house ownership. I know she bought this one with some reluctance, or maybe it was sadness, because with my sibs the refrigerator came after a marriage. The only marriage it looked like I was going to have was with myself. The marriage that had already ended never received a refrigerator. Maybe that’s why it failed. Of course she did give us the down payment for the house,which cancelled out the refrigerator.

My mother told me to go Sears and pick out the one I wanted. The
refrigerator arrived. I watched the delivery guy maneuver that beast through the door of my 1911 Victorian, which was just not quite wide enough, and just as he plugged it in, sweat pouring down his face, I said to him: “This isn’t the refrigerator I ordered”. I thought he might cry. “The one I saw at the store had food in it.” I really had him going there for a bit and it made the whole “I’m not married and maybe never will be” pain in my heart subside for just a minute or two.



So years later I am still not married and my refrigerator has outlived my
mother. She would die a thousand deaths anyway if she saw the state it is in because in her refrigerator you could have performed surgery.

Today I tackled the refrigerator. I am in a waiting period of my life. I’ve
created. I’ve put things out in the world. I written. I’ve narrated. I’ve prepared.
I’ve blogged. I’ve sent newsletters. I’ve done what I can do, for today. Today I feel I cannot do one more thing for my stalled business. Today it’s the refrigerator. Serious refrigerator business.

I get the elbow-high rubber gloves on and dive in. I start tossing, If I don’t recognize it, out it goes. If there is even a hint of a question about it - to the trash. I empty bottles, toss plastic bags, sniff, and rummage through all the amazing things that have been living in the relative comfort of a chilled box on a very hot summer morn. I takeout the shelves and scrub them to a high gloss. I pick every errant crumb from all the little crevices on every edge of the fridge. When all is spotless and dry I put back all the items that have made it through security clearance, organizing by taste. Sweet thingswith sweet things, sour things with other sours, spicies with other spicies. Neutrals are in bins all to themselves.



And just like that, I am done. I survey my success. My mother would
be proud. I feel pretty good myself. I know it won’t last. Entropy will take up residence soon. But for today, when I couldn’t think of anything else productive to do, and it is,after all, a work day, I cleaned the refrigerator. I’m giving myself an A plus today.

Now it’s on to the cat box.


If you enjoyed this story there's plenty more where this came from!
Check out The Priestess Chronicles as an ebook collection and as an audio book
narrated by yours truly (me!).
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Cindy Morris, msw
Priestess Entrepreneur