Want gravy on your anal-retentiveness?

Ever looked into your refrigerator and spent serious, deliberate time rearranging the items to fool your brain into thinking that it's more full than it is? Like the only thing that stands between you and starvation, the hummus that's all crusted over around the edges, and the can of off-brand soda, along with the dried-out flour tortilla from the convenience store is somehow more nutritious if it's in some pleasing geometric pattern?

Sometimes out of boredom, or undiagnosed OCD, I'll actually space the items neatly, with the labels facing the front, trying to instill order among the cartons of watery-cottage cheese, like a foodie drill-sergeant. I have this secret desire to have a friend visit, stumble off to the kitchen for another beer, and notice the fastidiousness of my fridge.

This isn't just paranoia. The woman downstairs, whenever she comes up to visit, goes immediately into my kitchen and takes inventory. She works at a sushi restaurant, and sees better food in an hour than I eat in a year, so I always get weird and self-conscious that my jumbo-bag of Toastie O's, opened on the wrong side and spilling out behind the microwave, won't escape her critical eye. I have no idea why she goes into my kitchen, since she never comes out with anything, other than an aura of smugness. I sometimes linger on the stairs outside her apartment, salivating like a pervert, from the aromas escaping into the hallway.

Another neighbor, at a gathering I had last winter, disappeared into my kitchen for ten minutes before I noticed she was there. I went in to find her doing my dishes, and when I asked what she was up to, she told me that: my kitchen was gross, and that she couldn't believe I had a girlfriend who would put up with it. Then, she dumped coffee grounds on my rug, and just left them there. I had just lost my job, it was cold, dark, and the walk to the garbage cans wasn't worth breaking my face from falling on the steps. Who the hell cared if I had a few bags of trash sitting beside the oven? It's not like they were filled with rotting body parts. I always take those out to the curb.