I Wanna Stay Home
We should really not go away. Ever. For any reason. Bad things happen when we go away.
We went through one streak when people died whenever we went away. I am not joking. On one of our pre-children trips to South Beach, the phone woke us up on our first morning. My best friend's father had died. Another time my husband's uncle died while we were somewhere. Another time we returned from a trip to learn that my mother was about to die. I stayed home for a very long time after that.
Lately our luck has turned. Death no longer necessarily occurs when we venture out; we have upgraded to simple disasters. On our first weekend away on our own, no children, we went to Manhattan. A blizzard paralyzed the city, and simultaneously someone drove their car through my husband's place of business. Just recently, a sewage pipe burst in the basement of the same building while we were out of town. That was a good time.
We returned last night from a lovely trip. As we unloaded the van and began bringing things into the house, I noticed that the kitchen smelled a little funky. I didn't think too much of it; a couple of things had been left in the sink that should not have been, and I attributed the odor to that. Continuing to schlep, I decided that the smell was really pretty bad, and I wondered if something had gone bad in the fridge. Bravely (for me) opening the door, I was propelled backwards across the room by the stench that slammed me. The fridge had shut off at some point during the week we were away. Every single thing in both the fridge and freezer had warmed up and gone bad. Oh, so bad.
I do not have a strong stomach. I cannot put it any more clearly than that. Eggs, in any form, frighten me. That is what a food wuss I am. So a full fridge/freezer combo loaded to the rafters with rotting food that is practically spewing itself at me sent me running. Literally. I may have been crying. I caused enough of a ruckus that my husband came running, and luckily for me, ordered me outside to drink wine with my neighbor while he loaded the garbage cans. I did screw up enough courage to come in afterwards and wash out the hateful contraption, but only because my neighbor continued to ply me with wine. Actually, she did most of the cleaning while I tried to recover from my case of the vapors. She's a good friend.
I have decided to try and develop some agorophobia.
We went through one streak when people died whenever we went away. I am not joking. On one of our pre-children trips to South Beach, the phone woke us up on our first morning. My best friend's father had died. Another time my husband's uncle died while we were somewhere. Another time we returned from a trip to learn that my mother was about to die. I stayed home for a very long time after that.
Lately our luck has turned. Death no longer necessarily occurs when we venture out; we have upgraded to simple disasters. On our first weekend away on our own, no children, we went to Manhattan. A blizzard paralyzed the city, and simultaneously someone drove their car through my husband's place of business. Just recently, a sewage pipe burst in the basement of the same building while we were out of town. That was a good time.
We returned last night from a lovely trip. As we unloaded the van and began bringing things into the house, I noticed that the kitchen smelled a little funky. I didn't think too much of it; a couple of things had been left in the sink that should not have been, and I attributed the odor to that. Continuing to schlep, I decided that the smell was really pretty bad, and I wondered if something had gone bad in the fridge. Bravely (for me) opening the door, I was propelled backwards across the room by the stench that slammed me. The fridge had shut off at some point during the week we were away. Every single thing in both the fridge and freezer had warmed up and gone bad. Oh, so bad.
I do not have a strong stomach. I cannot put it any more clearly than that. Eggs, in any form, frighten me. That is what a food wuss I am. So a full fridge/freezer combo loaded to the rafters with rotting food that is practically spewing itself at me sent me running. Literally. I may have been crying. I caused enough of a ruckus that my husband came running, and luckily for me, ordered me outside to drink wine with my neighbor while he loaded the garbage cans. I did screw up enough courage to come in afterwards and wash out the hateful contraption, but only because my neighbor continued to ply me with wine. Actually, she did most of the cleaning while I tried to recover from my case of the vapors. She's a good friend.
I have decided to try and develop some agorophobia.
That's pretty nasty. But you have a good husband to make you go drink wine while he does the heavy lifting. Of course, I don't need anyone to "make" me drink wine. I'd probably already be doing it.
I hope your fridge is all better!