Last week the Good Lord tested my marriage as though it were Job.
Our freezer wasn’t working and instead of looking into the more affordable murder-suicide option, my husband decided to call some sort of freezer shaman.
“Maybe we should just get a new freezer,” I suggested, but apparently I’m married to someone who comes from the Don’t Fix It If It’s Broken But Do Fix It If It IS Broken school of thought. The enrollment is quite low in that school, for obvious reasons.
After the repairman left, my husband emailed me.
The good news is that he thinks he can fix it for $300. The bad news is we have to empty out the fridge and freezer and turn them off for 24 hours before he can do that.
I was dreading emptying out the fridge, although I was obviously happy about getting $300 for giving the guy a right to practice his craft on our freezer. That money can come in really handy. Especially since I need a red Mophie.
The Day of Reckoning arrived last Sunday.
I tried to get a a pardon from the Governor, but you try cutting through all the red tape in Albany.
“Let’s just throw everything out!” I suggested. This was my Plan B, after the excellent “Let’s eat everything!” Plan A+ was rejected. Unfortunately Plan B met with a similar fate. Instead my husband had arranged for us to store our refrigerator/freezer contents in our neighbor’s refrigerator/fridge. Unfortunately, our neighbor was away this week, so he just gave us the keys. A better neighbor would have stayed behind to help us transport everything, but that’s a talk that will have to wait until her gets home. I can wait. I know where he lives.
Unfortunately for me, my husband and I were of two different minds as to how to accomplish this task. For ease of reference, I’ll call the two methods “sane” and “insane.”
The sane method was to look at an item and within three seconds decide if it was staying or going. If it was staying, put it in the area that got transported to the safety of the neighbor’s fridge. If it was going, it got placed into the garbage.
The insane method was more elaborate. Every item got picked up and examined. If it was staying, it got put in an area that got transported to the safety of the neighbor’s fridge, a la the sane method. Where the insane method kicked in was if an item was to be discarded.
“Let’s see,” my husband held a jar of mayonnaise up in his hand like it was the Statue of Liberty’s torch. “This mayonnaise has been in the fridge for ten years.”
“I don’t think so,” I muttered.
“Yes, I remember it,” he was on his way down memory lane with a jar of Hellman’s.
“It was a different jar 10 years ago. And then there were some others along the way. But this is a new one.”
“It looks like the old one.”
“That’s because Hellman’s doesn’t design individual labels for the mayonnaise. Don’t tell anyone, but I think they may be mass produced or something.”
“I don’t know, we should throw it out.”
“Unless you’re sure that this is new.”
“It’s definitely not 10 years old. Besides we threw everything out after Sandy.”
“Right. So the mayonnaise could be from last November?”
“Look, are we cleaning out the fridge or planning birthday festivities for the condiments? Let’s keep this one but you can throw out the next one?”
“Look at this Tabasco sauce! How long do you think it’s been in here?”
“I don’t know. Who cares? Tabasco doesn’t go bad.”
“I think this is Pre-Sandy.”
“Maybe. Let’s just throw it out unless you want me call forensics in on it.”
And it went on from there. Every item was lovingly examined, aged, and either transported to safety or discarded.
I really hope the freezer guy works his magic because I’m not sure my marriage can survive another go-around of condiment examination.