Well, if my behavior late last night is anything to go by, and seeing as how I am one of the two original lifehos, it most certainly is, here is the solution:
Get out of bed and walk past your male roommate’s room in your underwear – hopefully the door is closed and he’s fast asleep. Lucky day! That seems to be the case. But can you really be sure? After all, you neglected to put your glasses on and everything is a dark messy blur. Meh, that’s the least of your worries.
Continue walking into the kitchen.
You probably know that there is nothing good to eat. Undoubtedly, you can mentally inventory the contents of the fridge – including the shriveling blueberries you keep meaning to throw out – as well as the contents of the pantry cabinets, which are way too high to reach anyways. Who designs a kitchen like this? Probably some shallow man with a small penis who intended to discourage the slightly shorter sex from having unlimited access to dry foods at the slightest whim of a craving. Your anger at this A-hole’s blatant ignorance and disrespect is enough to fuel a fiery, multi-paragraphed Yelp review… But we digress.
After contemplating the blueberries and a box of four-month old matzoh crackers, you venture into the realm of the unknown. You get a fork and, squinting all the while, proceed to dive into two of your roommate’s unlabeled, and upon further inspection, stubbornly unidentifiable recent additions to the fridge community.
The first (edible?) item slumps in the corner of a small brown take-out box: see Exhibit A. You’ve noticed the box before, your roommate put it in there at least two or three days ago, and your curiosity as to its contents can no longer be restrained. Plus, who are we kidding, you’re hungry and something must be done about it. The thing in the box is yellow and shiny, a little crumbly, and has green specks scattered throughout. Standing in front of the open fridge (Geneen Roth be damned!), you stab at it with your fork and take a few hurried bites. As it turns out, not being able to tell what a food is even after having seen, smelled and tasted it is a little unsettling. A little gross. Laughing to (at) yourself, you close the box and put it back. He’ll never know!
The next unlabeled item whose ambiguity draws your eye (ambiguity signifying to you, at this desperate hour, a secret potential to be something unexpectedly divine) is a small, round container tucked back into a dark corner of the fridge. See Exhibit B. You remember your roommate putting it in there a couple days before, and describing it as having something to do with fish… and hey, who doesn’t love seafood! So you take it out, open it, and consider the brown, gray, green, lumpy mush with an open mind. It smells vaguely… gourmet. Which is certainly encouraging! But a few healthy bites later, still unable to identify even a single ingredient, the slightly sour, overwhelming oiliness becomes too much. “Power through!” you tell yourself. Then you laugh out loud, put it back and shut the fridge.
There are popsicles in the freezer… sure, the only flavor left is coconut, but at least you know that. At least you have some semblance of an inkling where a coconut popsicle would fit into a food pyramid. You take one to bed with you and eat it lying down, its stickiness dripping everywhere and staying everywhere you can’t lick it off. You could really use a Wet Nap, or a shower, or, let’s be real, a cheeseburger and animal-style fries from In-N-Out.
But it’s late and your hunger has at least scaled down from a full blown growl to only an intermittent purring. You’ll go to the store in the morning. After you wash your sheets.