On October 17th, 2008, Texas housewife Mrs. Aarons woke up to find there were no cold cans of Diet Coke in her Kenmore side-by-side refrigerator. This was very distressing news for Mrs. Aarons, as well as for everyone within a 5-mile radius, because it is well-known that when Mrs. Aarons does not have her morning soda, she becomes “bitchier than a premenstrual wildebeest” and will then drive through her subdivision trying to cream random joggers with her late-model Volvo.

Wanting to avoid this somewhat unsavory scenario, Mrs. Aarons then made the fateful decision to put one can of Diet Coke into her freezer so it could quickly cool down. “What a brilliant move!” thought the fair housefrau. “Why, after I make two lunches, feed the fish, brush my hair, fold some towels, debone a chicken and touch-up the grout in the guest bathroom, I’ll just remember to take my soda out of the freezer! There’s NO WAY I’ll forget it in there! After all, it’s not like I have the short-term memory of a housecat or something!”

Unfortunately, Mrs. Aarons has the short-term memory of a housecat or something, so seven hours later, when opening the freezer to find dinner, she was shocked to see that there had been a rather calamitous aspartame explosion all over her collection of frozen food. “Sweet Jesus!” Mrs. Aarons yelled. “Who the hell barfed on my pot pies!?” It was then that Mrs. Aarons remembered her long-lost Diet Coke and, putting her 4th grade knowledge of science to use, she surmised that the soda must have expanded when it froze, thereby shattering through its restrictive container. “Just like my ass does when I try to put on my skinny jeans!” she marveled. “That’s amazing!”

The next two hours of Mrs. Aarons’ busy day were filled with cursing and washing icy diet soda crystals off of her assorted frozen food items. Finally taking her hands out of the hot, soapy water, she placed the last freshly-scrubbed Popsicle back into the freezer door, then stood back to admire her handiwork. “Well, I might not be the most accomplished housewife in the world,” she whispered to herself. “Or the thinnest. Or the cutest. Or even the one who’s taking the least amount of anti-anxiety meds. But dammit—if I don’t have the cleanest bags of frozen peas anyone has ever laid eyes on, then you can all just go screw yourselves with a Swiffer Wet-Jet.”

And for that, Mrs. Aarons, we say “Job well done!”