There are a number of reasons I hesitate to call myself an “adult.”

I might be staring down 30 (not that I think 30 is so old, but come on now; nobody talks about those 30-year-old kids), but I don’t really feel very grown up most of the time. Except when I’m paying bills or buying Grown Up Stuff like mattresses and life insurance.

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It might look innocent, but something wicked this way rots. GAH.

I definitely don’t feel grown up when it comes to things around the house. (Even though I now live in a Grown Up House.) Take, for instance, the refrigerator. A smell is coming from it. It’s hard to describe. It smells pungently ripe, and angry. And I’m terrified.

It could be one of a number of things. You see, if I catch something just as it’s about to go bad, I’m great about trashing it or composting it. But, if it’s past the almost bad stage and gets into the sweet baby jebus WHAT is that? stage, I’m more likely to hope the Tupperware does its thing and holds the stink in until someone else takes care of it. And, you know, since he’s the only other person living here, that other person is probably going to end up being my husband. (Hey, he knew what he was getting into when he married me. DON’T YOU PITY HIM.)

Unfortunately, some piece of Tupperware (well, probably bargain Tup-r-wear or something) isn’t holding up its end of the bargain. The smell is not even contained within the fridge anymore — the entire kitchen is affected. I’ve avoided the kitchen as long as I can (this lady likes to eat, folks), and my husband won’t be home until the end of the week, so it appears I’ll have to Grow Up and Do Something. Ugh.

It might be the tempeh from a few weeks ago. And I think I lost an onion or two recently. Yikes, that cucumber looks really bad. And while the Gorgonzola cheese didn’t smell all that unstinky to begin with, it looks like it could give a teenage football player’s jock strap a run for its money right about now.

I’m off to put on nice underwear so that when the authorities find The Lady Who Died From Cleaning Out Her Rotten Ass Fridge, my mother won’t have to be embarrassed that her only daughter was found wearing old undies.  (Also, if you don’t hear from me for a couple of days, send over the authorities, would you?)

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