Q: How many men does it take to find a quart of milk in the refrigerator?
A: Nobody knows because it hasn’t happened yet.
I am on fire with a new mission and I’m asking for support from other women who live with a man legally or illegally. Their input will be an invaluable aid in my quest to find a cure for the previously unidentified condition now known as MRB, or Male Refrigerator Blindness.
Women know what I’m talking about, but what they may not know is that Refrigerator Blindness is genetic, passed down from father to son like body hair and permanent immaturity. Little boy babies pop out of the womb with the MRB Syndrome but it doesn’t rear its ugly head until he is approximately three feet tall.
The symptoms may not be recognizable at first because they can be dormant until the moment he pulls open the refrigerator door for the first time. At this point, the condition is automatically activated. I am sorry to report that at this time all research data on the subject leads me to believe that there is no known cure.
It’s like this: Suddenly, those baby blues you fell in love with oh so many years ago, turn to dull, lifeless orbs from which the male can see nothing inside the fridge. His lips part slightly and a noticeable trickle of drool makes its way south as his stupor becomes more pronounced. After no less than five minutes, while staring, sock-footed or fully shod at the white carton with the letters M-I-L-K printed in bright red letters on the front, he calls out for assistance.
Honey, where’s the milk?
Some grown men have been known to stand in front of a refrigerator with the door open until the bulb blows and leaves him staring into the dark abyss. Others may stand there until the lettuce wilts.
Those men have a full-blown case of Refrigerator Blindness and they need help.
Women of the world, there is promising news on the horizon. Although there is no known cure, I have devised two possible band-aids to help with the problem. I was driven to do this because Babe’s disease is so far advanced that it scares me silly.
In the first experiment, I glued heavy-duty Velcro on the underside of a tape recorder and then stuck another piece to the inside of the refrigerator. As soon as Babe opened the fridge door, a pre-recorded tape of my voice automatically played the following:
Look directly in front of you, Babe. Do not blink. Place your right hand straight out, parallel to your nose, then lower it eight inches. You are now touching the top of that object known to everyone in the civilized world as a carton of milk.
Grasp it firmly with your hand and then take two steps back. This will allow the refrigerator door to close all by itself before everything inside dies a slow death.
Your normal vision should slowly return at this time. Look to the left and then walk over to the first upper cabinet you see, open it and remove a clear cylinder that normal people pour liquids into that they intend to drink. It is called a glass. Pour the milk from the carton into the glass, put the glass up to your lips and sip. If you have any problems with these directions, do not call me. Call Dr. Phil.
The second experiment was easier. I glued pictures of big boobs onto the surface of anything Babe might possibly think of removing from the fridge.
I considered drawing a detailed map to designate the exact spot where the milk or other items are normally located. I gave up on that idea, however, when I realized that MRB can only be cured by direct intervention administered by a wife, significant live-in OR anatomically correct pictures of big boobies in living color. Besides, expecting Babe to look at a map was too much like asking for directions. My man doesn’t do either one.
Time is a commodity for me and as I inch closer to bankruptcy, I’m hoping to enlist a few good women to help me spread the MRB word. I’ll probably never win the Nobel Prize for curing the syndrome, but maybe someday I’ll receive a refrigerator-shaped plaque given by grateful women who were able to help their men to become MRB survivors.
Check it out at MrBandAids.com!
Editor’s Note: Cappy Hall Rearick is a humor columnist for the Lowcountry Sun in Charleston, South Carolina. She is the author of four published books. Visit her at www.simplysoutherncappy.com.