The Fridge, and Not the One Who Stole Walter Payton's Super Bowl TD

My parents recently bought a new refrigerator.  It's nice and fancy, with all the bells and whistles like an ice maker and all that jazz.  The problem is that it's considerably smaller than their last fridge.

"Well," my mom pointed out, looking me up and down.  "We thought it would just be me and your father at this point in our lives."

Ouucchhh.  That was cold.  Me, my sister and my shredded hip abductors take offense to that statement.

Anyway, every morning, my mom opens the fridge and immediately starts bitching and moaning about how crowded it is in there.

"When did you eat this chicken?"
"Two hours ago, Mom."
"So it's no good.  I'm going to toss it.  Why are you refrigerating turkey?  If you leave it outside it will turn into a nice bit of jerky in just a few days."

That may be an exaggeration, but you get the idea.

Last week, I hung up this memo, trying to maybe show her how ridiculous her refrigerator (or "frigerator" as we call it on the south side of Chicago) mania is and to gently motivate her to change.

A few days later, I happened to notice this little clip tucked behind my memo.

I took a closer look.

You win this round, Refrigerator Mary.