Are you really your fridge?

Maybe the only fun part of this year’s election—I know, I know—was that bit the NYT ran on whether you could infer a person’s politics based on the contents of her fridge. I took the quiz and got an 87%. My prejudices were for the most part ratified: Biden supporters are prissy: they eat healthy; they spend on top-tier brands; they are clean and organized. Trump supporters are all Mountain Dew and Krispy Kreme. Whatever.

The other day I woke up in the middle of the night and went to get some Kefir (prissy). It was still dark out. My puppy was mewling because he can’t be anywhere I’m not (I should be flattered, but mostly I find this annoying because the mewling tends to escalate to barking, which wakes up my kid, at which point I start to question not only why I got this dog, but every decision I have ever made in my life). So. It’s 4:30 in the morning. I am groggy and depressed because I know I’m not getting back to sleep. I open the fridge and this is what I see:

Where to begin.

I didn’t scream—I’m not much of a screamer—but I did race through a number of emotions ranging from terror to terror. Apparently, I’d forgotten that just a few hours ago, a neighbor had left these monstrosities outside my door and because I dread imposing my hostility to all things traditionally girly on my daughter, I took them in. I’d forgotten that because my freezer is too small, I decided that popping them in the fridge might kill whatever bed bugs were camped out in all that lovely hair, never mind that most evidence suggests bed bugs are immortal. I’d forgotten all of this when I opened what was obviously a gateway to every horror movie ever made.

Am I my fridge? Yeah, kinda. My fridge is aspirational and parental. Except for the yogurt, I eat none of what you see in there; it’s all for my kid (minus the pumpkin, which is for said dog). I want my kid to grow up having a healthy relationship to food (I hate food) and with no evidence of the debilitating and depressing auto-immune condition I have, which makes me hate food all the more. So, yup, all those whole grains and quinoa and beans and spinach? Kid food.

But, like, the misplaced female who had the foresight to bring a scarf into the refrigerator but still finds herself IN A REFRIGERATOR? That kinda sounds like me.