Yolanda Foster, you ma gurl. In the spring, I had to make the move from the lovely house on Mississippi Ave. to an old apartment in NW Portland. Moving is always really stressful, but it presents an opportunity to evaluate how much shit you have, see how much shit you don't need, and let go of things that remind you of past Scrubs and Waterfalls. Moving teaches you to stick to the Rivers and the Lakes that you used to.
Also, you get to move into a clean slate with an impeccable fridge. Above is a picture of my bitch ass fridge. I got some baskets, phallus-shaped veggies, and threw them in there with carafes of cucumber-infused water ready to go for impromptu luncheons (or hangovers). If there's one thing I can take away from hours of watching the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills, it's that Yolanda Foster is a domestic goddess and I am filthy pond scum compared to her and her fridge.
It even has it's own Twitter account.