The other day one of my coworkers off-handedly mentioned (I forget what we were talking about) that her mom always had them deep clean the fridge before company came — at which point I completely lost my shizzle.

“Wait, WHAT?! The fridge? No freaking way! Are you kidding me??!!”

(I can be intense.)

Turns out, part of their routine company preparations included a top-to-bottom clean of the fridge: taking everything out, wiping the fridge down with bleach, discarding old stuff, etc, etc, did you ever!  Cleaning the fridge ranks so low on my getting-ready-for-company list that it’s not even on the page. I deep-clean the fridge — take everything out, wash the produce drawers, and scrub down the shelves and walls — exactly. . . never. 

In order of importance, here’s what I do (or make sure gets done) before company arrives:

Wash all the dishes and empty the drainers.
Thorough vacuum of the downstairs.
Pick up. (“De-gnoming,” my husband calls it, as in: decluttering.)
Clean the downstairs bathroom: toilet, sink, mirror.
Sweep the manure and mud off the porch.
Wash the kitchen windows. 
Wash the stove top.
Pick up the yard poops, or the dog poops in the yard. (Our yard does not poop.)
Empty trashes.
Tidy the shoe room.
Wipe down all the tables, fold throw-blankets, fluff pillows.
Light candles.

The fridge does get spot-cleaned on the regular. My fridge fills and empties almost weekly and when a shelf gets mostly empty, I might (like once a month or so) scrub at the rings of dried milk and sticky smears of pancake syrup with a soapy dishcloth.* And I frequently (though not frequently enough) wipe down the fridge handles. 

But that’s about it.

In conclusion, two questions:

1. How often do you deep clean your fridge?
2. What’s on your Cleaning For Company list?

And a bonus question: 

3. Is your fridge in a perpetual state of packed-full-ness, or does it regularly resemble a chilly barren wasteland?

*My husband read this and took issue, pointing out that he deep cleans sections of the fridge when there’s been a spill. As do I! But, I maintained, disinfecting the fridge guts before company comes is a whole other level to which we do not even remotely come close.

(In the process of having the above-mentioned discussion, which may or may not have gotten a little heated, I mis-measured the water for the sourdough and spent the next 45 minutes trying to rectify the error of my ways.)

This same time, years previous: 100% hydration bread, perimenopause: Hillary, age 51, the quotidian (2.22.21), homemade pasta, jelly toast: a love story, the quotidian (2.22.16), peanut butter and jelly bars.

Quotidian: daily, usual or customary;
everyday; ordinary; commonplace

Grape mead.

Belper balls.

(Flavorless and sugarless) cranberry scones with pink peppercorns.

Treat yourself, people. It’s a winner.

Fermentation fizz!

Braided heart.

Negative space heart.

This Super Bowl celebration: Ted Lasso.

This same time, years previous: seven fun things, a cheese crisis, Danny Boy, quiche Lorraine, collard greens, the quotidian (2.19.18), doppelganger, lemon cheesecake morning buns, almond cake, in the eyes of the beholder, digging the ruffles.

I have this new nighttime routine called Wake Up In The Middle Of The Night To Worry About Dumb Shit. I fall asleep just fine but then I wake up to pee and — BAM — my brain leaps into high gear. 

Actually, last night was a little different. As soon as I stepped into the bathroom, my mind said, “Can you imagine if the house burned down?” (there was another equally horrid question, something about a body in the bathtub, perhaps?), but I was like, “Jennifer, are you freakin’ serious right now? Do not EVEN,” and then I fell right back to sleep. Miracles!

But an hour later I popped back awake to problem solve because that’s what my brain likes to do best in the dead of night: pick a problem and then worry it into submission. My brain switches on and, right on cue, my body tenses and I get to work think-think-thinking. 

Last night my brain didn’t shut off until nearly 4:00, but then I only dozed intermittently because my husband had entered his twitch-sleeping stage and kept waking me with all his involuntary jerks and shudders, one of which, at 4:44 am, yanked me wide awake, at which point I vocalized loudly, ripped off my sleep mask, and shot out of the room. 

***

When I was a child and had trouble falling sleeping (or didn’t want to fall asleep), my mother would chirp, “Think happy thoughts about Jesus.” 

One of my friends keeps five happy scenarios on tap. If she has trouble sleeping, she pulls one of them up and ponders it until she falls asleep. Which she does promptly. 

But my brain wants drama, terror, and angst. Tossing it a happy conundrum when it wakes ravenous for complications to detangle is ineffective and slightly dangerous, like attempting to satisfy a junk food craving with celery. Once the munching starts, it doesn’t stop. Watch out.

***

I have no solution. Some nights I treat myself to a Ibuprofen PM. About once a week, I’ll take some CBD tincture or Bigfoot Glue that a friend made. Once in a blue moon I’ll have a piece of the special chocolate that my daughter brought me when she moved back from Massachusetts. 

The lack of sleep doesn’t seem to be much of a problem, really. I drink my cup of coffee, take a Ibuprofen to ward off the no-sleep headache, and get on with my day.  

And some nights I sleep just fine. For example, two nights ago I dreamed the owner of an enormous cruise ship was in love with me and we were sailing up the Hudson into New York City. I’d never been on a cruise ship, in real life or in a dream. It was magnificent.

This same time, years previous: sex after menopause: Meredith, age 74, draft two, the great courses, collard greens, kitchen sink cookies, the quotidian (2.15.16), the quotidian (2.16.15), chocolate pudding, buses, boats, and trucks.