“Ewwwwaaarrgh”. My anguish reverberates through the room.
The Viking, our resident Yuckfighter, is immune to my drama, but his curiousity drags him to the kitchen.
“What?” he enquires casually, coming to peer into the refrigerator with me.
“Unless thats a dead kitten in our fridge, dear, then its broccoli thats been there so long that it has inhaled CFC’s, grown itself some fluffy fur and become the latest new life form on planet Earth.”
The Viking, being brave and the sort who is undeterred by The Grossest Levels of Gross, reaches in.
“Ewww. For heavens sake, put some gloves on!” I scream.
“Why? We’re not exactly going to do a forensic report.” he replies dryly.
Offending object is quickly removed, thought I couldn’t say with total certainty since my eyes were tightly shut and I had also ceased to breathe through my nose. As you can guess, I’m a total trooper.
“There!” says the Viking once done and I venture to view the world again.
“While we’re at it,” he says, “you might want to know that we have a couple of potatoes in there that are breeding…err.. grandchild potatoes off their hip.”
Egads! “Get rid of it. Please! Live up to the intrepid Viking stereotype and wipe them clean off the face of the earth!”
“We wouldn’t be in this mess to begin with if you’d lived up to your Good Indian Wife stereotype, would we?” comes the tart rejoinder.
Officially too pissed to say touché. But guess who’s disinfecting the fridge? You guessed it. The Good Indian Wife. Gah!
Epilogue to Mother
Dear Mother, This is an exaggerated version of events. This is a fictional account. I am a wonderful wife and housekeeper and our home is a temple. We worship at the altar of Jif. Please don’t call me about this unless we suddenly collapse, having been inflicted with a biblical pestilence. And yes, we should clean the fridge more often. But that would leave less time for the kids.
And not necessarily in the order mentioned above.
You didn’t fail. This is all me. Good night.
Dedicated to MiM. You’ll never walk alone:-)