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I want a vote, dammit

I've had it. I'm done, fed up, exhausted, annoyed and not happy.

Our fridge died, because someone -- I'm not pointing fingers -- left the freezer open while we were on hellcation last month. We've kept things chilled with bags of ice treating our refrigerator like a giant beer cooler. But the scorching temperatures we endured last weekend were too much to keep up with.

I poured myself what should have been a cold glass of water on Sunday -- it was warmer than my pee. Jerod said the fridge was fine, but I could smell and hear the food rotting as I drank my hot beverage in our 92-degree kitchen. 

My dad, a brilliant bacteriologist and veterinarian, begged us not to poison the children with potentially rancid food -- "Let me buy you a fridge."

It arrived Tuesday -- a lovely white refrigerator with french doors and a night light and a water dispenser and a pocket butler who wipes your bum ... I've been dreaming of this day for five years -- the day our ecru, dirty-looking refrigerator would be replaced with a new, stylish model that matches the rest of our white appliances. And here it was my dream realized.


I giggled all day at the thought of my kitchen color coordinated -- finally. The magic was waiting for me at home. I'd waltz through the door after work and find instead of an ugly box heavy with detritus -- magnets, stickers, old notes and out-dated phone numbers -- a bare, sparkling white refrigerator. I envisioned choirs of angels with doves and lilies in the heavenly light that was my new appliance.

The reality: Jerod defiled my refrigerator's beauty with a bunch of crap he pinched off the dead fridge.

I was staring at a map-by-magnets-and-brochures of my marriage -- the "don't molest the wildlife" flier we got in Yellowstone on our first anniversary; a calendar from 2004, the Mariner's 2008 game schedule; expired coupons from the Pizza Hut in Pullman (that's 400 miles away) ... 

"It was too white," he said. "Trust me. This looks a lot better."

"You can't even tell that it's new. All you can see is the junk."

(Insert Jerod's stupid robot dance.)

That's how it goes here. I want things to look a certain way, and Jerod arranges them in whatever order I find most offensive and hideous. And when I complain he dances or farts or sings about pooping. I'm half tempted to burn down the house -- that way he'll have no surfaces to stack moldy gingerbread houses or empty egg cartons or dried-out Play-Doh and Play-Doh containers. 

Some people think it's sooo sweet that Jerod is sentimental with his magnets and his garbage, but I'm the one wading through poo in the morning just to get a glass of water.

HE NEEDS AN INTERVENTION.


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