Carrie

Sunday night I noticed that some meat Bill had purchased and stored, uncooked, in his drawer in the fridge had gotten quite bloody. He had purchased two large cuts of meat, one in his drawer, and another he had stashed on top of a shelf in the main compartment of the refrigerator.

I asked him to please take care of it because, honestly, it was gross.

Monday evening I came home, made dinner, and reached under the second flat of raw meat to grab my orange juice.

At that moment the bag that was damming back the flood of blood slipped and blood poured, splashed, and tumbled out of the bag, and down the entirety of the fridge, a la Carrie.

It was disgusting. Horrible. And quite aggravating.

Also, I was pissed.



My only action was to clean the refrigerator.

My roommate came down moments after the shower of blood, and asked me what was going on. I was too upset to be polite, so I sent her off to the gym and got down to business. I emptied out the fridge and scrubbed it down with vinegar water.

When Bill came home I had just finished cleaning and reassembling the fridge. I ran into him as I was taking the last of the trash out. "Hey, I'm going to take care of the meat in the fridge," he greeted. Clearly, he could tell I was upset, so he headed upstairs and when I joined him in the kitchen to finish cleaning he asked me what he could do to help me clean.

I was so upset, but logically, it was hard to remain mad—he could tell I was upset, and headed to address the concern straight away. And, honestly, I asked him to take care of it, and the very next day he was going to.

Emotions won out.