I have a refrigerator problem.
More broadly, I have a problem with executive functioning, which is a catch-all term for people who struggle with some or all of the following: being on time, organizing their possessions in such a way that they do not regularly shriek through the house like a fire engine on the way to a three-alarm fire looking for their keys or their purse—no, not that purse, you IDIOTS—while running late for an appointment, putting things away neatly (or at all), creating systems that allow them to function efficiently, thinking linearly, or remembering to take their ADHD medication, which is supposed to help with all of the above.
But the refrigerator is where it all comes to a head.
I’m married to a person who does not have executive functioning difficulties. In high school, he used one of those four-color ballpoint pens to take meticulously organized, color-coded notes while I doodled pictures of women in ballgowns with pouffy skirts in the margins of my notebooks.
My husband owns a label maker. He keeps things in clearly labeled boxes and files. He once told me that if he dies first, I will easily be able to find all the important documents I’ll need. I responded that if I die first, he will be so aggravated by the herculean labor of having to sort through the morass of my aspirational notebooks, scarves, sweaters, rings, mismatched earrings and scraps of paper that he will not have time to grieve. He’ll just be royally pissed, which is… maybe better than being sad?
OMG. I just realized I am a magpie.
But back to the refrigerator.
Five days after we got married, my husband stuck his head into the refrigerator of our LA apartment and said, “You put the cream cheese on the wrong shelf again.”
I had not been aware until that point that there was a right shelf for the cream cheese. (Also, again?! Really, David?) But evidently, there is. I had put the cream cheese in a place that impeded my husband’s ability to slide out the milk, and everyone knows that tall things go on the shelf with a lot of overhead clearance and short things, like the cream cheese container, go on a shelf with little overhead clearance. I did not get that memo, but also, figuring out what goes on which shelf entails stopping and thinking and acting planfully, all of which, as I noted above, are not part of my core skill set.
My husband and I have been married for 33 years, and while I do occasionally make an effort to be methodical about organizing the fridge, it feels wrong, like writing with my left hand or not talking. I go to the grocery store, I get groceries, I bring them home (usually in a mad rush because I’ve timed it so that I am just in time, or almost just in time, for my upcoming phone or Zoom appointment, and I shove all the perishables in the fridge before rushing to the computer. My method, if you’re curious, is called No Time to Spare, Shove Stuff Wherever There’s Room, GO GO GO™. Sure, this can occasionally make it hard to find things that got shoved all the way in the back, and every once in a while I’ll come upon a bag of liquefied… arugula? Spinach? Something green, anyway. But it’s fast and allows me to get to my next thing and for the most part, I know where everything in the fridge is, just like I know (for the most part) where to find the important paper I need in the pile of other papers and books and notebooks on my desk. And if I can’t immediately locate what I need, I enjoy scavenging (because I usually find at least a couple of other interesting things along the way), unless I really can’t find what I’m looking for and then I go into Manic Panic Mode™ (see searching for keys and purse, above).
But moments of panic aside, I’m the family forager. In the Stone Age, I would have been the one gathering berries and occasionally getting distracted by pretty and possibly poisonous plants. (My husband would be the one who methodically tracks and kills the wooly mammoth with a single, perfectly placed arrow.) I’m that weirdo who enjoys browsing the shelves at the grocery store and coming back with aspirational condiments because how gratifying is it to discover a pretty jar of something you will maybe possibly use in a recipe you will spend several hours tracking down on the internet and serve on a lovely vintage platter that you found on a shelf at Goodwill which you had no intention of going into because you were only there to drop off your donated items but decided to peek in just for a minute?
I am going to open a can of worms here (and then promptly forget where I put it and the worms will go crawling all over the place, for which I apologize in advance) and pull out a big word: neurodiversity. Neurodiversity is a relatively recent term, dating back to 1998. It’s meant to offer an alternative to a deficit-based way of thinking about autism, ADHD, OCD, and other learning differences. All good, but here’s the problem: somewhere in the definition is an implication that neurodiverse, or neurodivergent, diverges from typical. And what, I ask you, is a typical brain? Is using a four-color ballpoint pen typical? How about being left-handed? Thinking cilantro tastes like soap? Do you see where I’m going?
The problem is, the refrigerator is a shared space, and, almost 34 years after the cream cheese controversy, it still causes conflict. My husband does not enjoy foraging. He doesn’t even scan. (I’m sorry to sound sexist, but what is it with men and scanning? According to my highly scientific survey of several married women friends, it appears that men don’t like to scan. Nor do they respond well to vague directions, like “Somewhere in the middle back of the middle shelf or maybe in the deli drawer.”) But—and hear me out—I still maintain chaos can be productive. Inspiring, even. For proof, stay tuned for next week’s Substack about the infamous Cabbage Incident of 1989.
In the meanwhile, please weigh in with stories about your own controversial shared spaces, endearing weirdnesses, fortuitous finds, and refrigerator organizing tips.
Hahaha. I still have that pen. In a plastic storage drawer labeled "pens." Which is above the drawer labeled "label maker" which—no kidding— has the label maker in it. You know, just in case I'm not home and for some ridiculous reason you might want to use a label maker.
“The Fridge is a Dimensional Place” — this is the anti-scan lecture I’ve had the repeated opportunity to give Vic over the course of our long marriage.
You are a magpie! And I love your collections of words most.