The Patron Saint for Clean Fridges

If you've been keeping up with our treks to Washington, Oregon, and Arizona, you know we've been away for awhile.  And I had mentioned here that things were a little funky in the fridge, but when we were just about to leave for 5 days for New Years...I wasn't about to break a sweat getting the Wookie & Co. house back in working order.  I had champagne to drink, family to frolic with, and a New Year's resolution to debate (y'all will have to hold steady for that).

So like any pretend Catholic, I had pretend guilt.

Yesterday I spent some good minutes cleaning the fridge.  The whole fridge.  Nothing but the fridge.  So help me, God.  I have no idea how long it actually took.  But it was long.  TWSS.

Call it a calling...or a lingering stench whenever the door was opened...or not being able to justify what's what beneath layers of green, grey, and black growth.  And there's a reason why it's not documented.  A.) It was gross.  B.) I couldn't maneuver my camera with my haz-mat suit.  C.) I don't want to offend my readers.  Mainly because I don't want Wookie Protective Services to become involved like I'm an unfit living companion.  But in reality, it was a joint decision to say, "Screw it" and deal with it later.  I just happened to be the one motivated to do so yesterday.  Yes, I'll take e-high fives.  Thanks.

Don't judge at our 4-gallon bucket of half & half.  We like our coffee.

And none of this food is bad, just so you know.  We had just made a $400+ run to Costco as we were out of everything from vodka, to soymilk, to steak, and make-up wipes.  Our kitchen now runneth over with edible delights.

Everything was taken out, analyzed for "This shit will kill you by (this date)," dumped if necessary or coveted (I found 2 "2 Below" New Belgium seasonals in the bottom!!), then replaced in an organized fashion.

There may or may not have been sticky residues on the shelves...which required scrubbing and drying.  All I know is something died and bled everywhere.  We're counting out Dexter...

To me, cleaning out the fridge was a mental "Si, se puede" that my Birkenstocks were a purchase.  So I sauntered down to my local Birkenstock dealer, a woman who was more than helpful helping my feet find a new home, and collected my bounty.

But first, a little fashion show in the store.  The only thing missing was RuPaul in the corner singing, "Work, CoverGirl, work..."  Price: Yes, high.  Comfort level: Only going up.  Love: Expanding.

McD, this is for you.

The statistics:  I have a narrow foot, so this limits the 'fun' Birkenstocks for me (sad face).  And because I didn't want a black or brown shoe (the exclusivity of it all, I just can't blend my black and brown outfits), this lovely "antique port" does the job and then some.  It's like going to the dentist where they give me mouthwash samples.  AND floss.

And a "I'm home" shot where I'll spend a few hours each day breaking them until they're ripe for the outdoors.  I've been extremely excited to finally pick these up since putting in my order before we left for Christmas.  I lack patience.