This post first appeared on August 12, 2020.

Who wants to clean out a refrigerator and chest freezer?

Blown light bulbs conveniently have kept me in the dark about their sad state. I grabbed food, slamming doors before tentacles could yank me inside.

But the garden soon will produce, I can’t feed my veggies to whatever life forms lurk there.

Confrontation time.

I need hot water and rubber gloves. Body armor. Samurai sword. Hey, past-expiration-by-a-decade cottage cheese grows testy when evicted.

I cover body armor with an apron. This secret weapon of all women in 1950s TV sitcoms empowered June Cleaver to do housework while wearing high heels and pearls. It will grant me added protection.

Besides, Hubby’s grandma sewed this apron. She fought a fierce, lifelong war against dirt and germs. Her spirit urges me to be strong.

Grabbing my sword, I crack the fridge’s door.

Nothing.

I throw it open.

Ack! Lavender salad dressing. Pudding that resembles petri dishes. Mashed potatoes that give a whole new meaning to “green vegetable.”

Did something just . . . move?

Slamming it shut, I venture into the garage, where the freezer resides. I open it. No tentacles.

I summon Golden Oldies to inspire me.

“Mission Impossible”?

So much for inspiration.

My Cold War almost morphs into peaceful coexistence when the song changes to “One-Eyed, One-Horned, Flying, Purple People Eater.” Will Hubby find nothing left but my eyeglasses and defrosted food?

Thankfully, the Star Wars theme erupts. Retying my mighty apron, I plunge into the freezer’s alternative universe. Amorphous packages, their age detectable only by carbon dating, evoke questions:

• Why did I shred four dozen bags of zucchini? Hubby hates zucchini bread, and I probably shouldn’t eat 50 pounds.

• Did this tuna casserole preexist with God in the beginning?

• Do holiday turkeys grow exponential sets of giblets?

Moving to “You’re No Good,” I toss out piles of mystery food. I use endless elbow “Grease,” then graduate to “Splish Splash,” reveling in unfamiliar spotlessness.

I saved giblets for a game of H-O-R-S-E, shooting them into trash cans in the driveway.

Oops. I hit a garbage guy.

My apology had better be good. I really want him to haul my melting mess away.

Fortunately, he only wants to flee. Cans are dumped in haste. The truck roars off to “Hey, hey, hey, goodbye. …”

Your Extraordinary Ordinary: How do you make housework fun?