I'm not lying when I tell you that my mother had a strict rule about hanging things on her refrigerator. The rule went like this:

DO NOT PUT THINGS ON MY REFRIGERATOR.

In a completely Freudian response to this, I literally have boxes upon boxes of magnets, doo-dads, clips, postcards, pictures, post-its, handy reminder dry erase board things, and other assorted fridge paraphernalia. These used to be rotated around as frequently as a set of word magnets (most likely similar to one that I once had in my possession, but cannot currently locate at the time of this posting.)

Upon our last move to Ohio, the "set list," if you will, has remained pitifully unchanged. Make no mistake: my fridge is still covered head to toe, on all three visible sides, with an assemblage of Stuff I Once Thought Would Be Cool Or Funny To Display In My Kitchen. As always, we rented a place with appliances furnished, so the refrigerator is not literally mine, but I like to create the illusion of ownership with my prized collection of Magnets I Have Purchased In Various Places I Have Vacationed. It's just that I haven't touched any of it, or moved it around, in over three years.

Until today.

Yes, today, I thought I'd perfect the alignment of a Han Solo magnet (holding a Rolling Stone clipping) (about a Ween song) (that was being rejected for a Pizza Hut advertisement) (put it in the "Or Funny" column) while I was waiting for the oven to preheat. It was during this period of adjustment that I realized someone had taken a permanent marker and scrawled onto the face of the refrigerator, behind the clipping. It was a not-so-polite statement about how much someone likes a certain part of the male anatomy.

The person slandered lives in this house.

It is not me.

I will let you do the math.

In addition to this little ditty, behind several other large pieces of paper -- paper that may or may not contain delightful artwork by a few young artists that are, in fact, my nieces, and has been, in fact, spoiled forever by the mental image of what lay beneath -- lots of other clever pieces of information involving the residents of this house and what we may or may not do with our genitalia, in addition to renditions of said genitalia, and perhaps what looks like an elephant.

And since this person took the time to sign his name to his Sharpie declarations, I now have an exact timeframe for how long they have been "on loan" in our little "gallery." The only time he's ever visited was almost exactly two years ago... when, I must admit, a large quantity of alcohol was joyfully consumed by all. He may have been making some sort of protest against the covering of our refrigerator (possibly on reconnaissance for my mother?); he may have been mocking our quaintness; he may have been incredibly wasted and in the possession of a permanent marker.

The point is: we are now forever tied to the copy of "Handprint Turkey, Finger Paint on Parchment, 8.5x11, 2001" my youngest niece so lovingly provided for us. I had no intentions of throwing this piece out, as it rounds out our collection nicely. However, we will have to wait until she provides us with a copy of her second grade report card, or her first learner's permit, or her highschool graduation photo, and then swap them out to cover the horrors beneath.

In other words, the drunken graffiti artist has just bought us a refrigerator. (Or, rather, he bought it two years ago and we're just now getting around to noticing.) This would also be the guy that screwed us out of some bit of money over a utility bill that he had not paid in six months, but had cleverly left our names on, and then failed to mention to us for several years.

I am going to find a way to pay this fucker back and rest assured it will involve some sort of insoluble paint and possibly one of his toes.