An everyday scene of domestic life:
Eeh Bah Mum is upstairs putting away washing in the bedroom WHERE THERE IS NO FUCKING FRIDGE. Mr Eeh Bah is downstairs, in the kitchen stood right next to a large cabinet that keeps food chilled, let’s call it the fridge aka THE PLACE WHERE CHEESE LIVES.
Him (shouts upstairs because his eyes are too weary to look in the fridge from playing Candy Crush but mainly because he cannot be arsed to open the fridge door and look): Do we have any cheese?
Her (dying a little inside, not because of what is asked but because she knows the answer): Yes.
As with most of cinema’s greatest moments the dramatic tension lies not in what is being said but what is NOT being said. Now maybe it is entirely normal for a man to reach his mid 40’s without ever understanding where cheese is kept. But that is not my issue, my issue is this:
Who the fuck made me Keeper of the fucking Fridge?
I did NOT sign up for this. It is certainly not a position I ever applied for, I don’t recall ever having an interview.
Interviewer: So Miss Smith do you know where the cheese lives?
Me: Yes in the fridge.
Interviewer: And are you aware of your households current cheese status?
Me: Yes we are currently with cheese, second shelf, on the right next to the hummus.
Dear Miss Smith,
After serious consideration of all applicants the panel decided you were the most likely to give a shit about the amount of cheese in the house. We are therefore delighted to offer you the position of Keeper of the Fridge.
Please replenish the butter dish immediately.
Because this never bloody happened. But somehow because I pushed some babbies out of my foof I am now the person in charge of the fridge.
Not only have I unknowingly accepted this role I am compounding the situation by retaining useless fucking information in my brain. Vital brain space I could be using to plot my path to world domination.
One way of looking at it might be that, as I am the one at home the most then I should take on the role of Keeper of the Fridge, but another way to look at it might be HOW THE FUCK AM I EVER SUPPOSED TO RETURN TO FULL TIME WORK WHEN MY BRAIN IS FULL OF POINTLESS FUCKING INFORMATION LIKE WHAT IS IN THE FRIDGE?
I blame the patriarchy. Or Tesco’s. Or is the fridge itself to blame?
This is very confusing.
Currently I am reading the biography of Empress Dowager Cixi the woman credited with creating modern China, I recently finished a biography of Coco Chanel and Lena Dunham’s book. All these women have achieved greatness in their lives, it’s interesting to note that at no point did any of them appear to waste their valuable time and energy by memorizing the contents of their household cabinets.
I literally cannot imagine a world where Breton stripes were the solely the reserve of French fishermen but that’s the nightmarish situation we would be facing if Gabrielle Chanel had kept on top of her cheese supplies instead of swanning around nobbing royalty and looking fabulous in pearls.
I should probably point out (before he serves me the divorce papers) that generally there is an equal division of household labour in our home. Yep. Even though I’m at home more. The deal is that I signed on to look after the children so when I’m at home that’s my job, I do the cooking because I like it and I am training the children to do it themselves and he cleans up A LOT because he is awesome.
I have therefore decided forthwith (Yes I have been watching The Good Wife & Suits again) to resign my post and abdicate from all fridge based responsibilities.
From this day forward I shall no longer remember the contents of my kitchen cupboards and when I am asked ‘Do we have any cheese?‘ I shall reply ‘How the fuck should I know?‘
This time next year who knows what I could have achieved?