My Woe. Let Me Tell You Of It.
Okay, so after 23 years our fridge decided to slowly commit suicide. We came home from vacation a few weeks ago to find it leaking on the floor. It only got good and cold in certain areas and the light flickered menacingly whenever the door was opened as if to say, “Do you dare to put your hand inside? Do you? Are you sure?” I don’t think that was just the leftovers talking. I think the fridge wanted to be left alone to die in peace.
Reluctantly, we decided that it was probably time for a new one. Now, you have to understand that unless we’re talking books, fabrics or ren faires, I LOATHE shopping. I hate it with the fiery passion of a thousand burning suns. Seriously, I hate the hell out of it. I especially hate shopping with my husband.
Now you all know, I love this guy to bits, but nine times out of ten, I’d rather chew broken glass wrapped in tin foil than go shopping with him. When I shop, I look, I point, I buy, I leave. When Matt shops, he must go to every store in the area that carries whatever it is that we’re interested in. Then there must be elaborate notes taken on models, delivery cost, etc at each store. Then the lists must be cross referenced. And all I can think is, I’d be done already, home and working on the next scene in my book.
So we made the rounds – fewer this time because thankyoubabyjesusinamanger – he shopped online first and made lists before leaving the house. So we went, we shopped, we bought. We even got a pretty good deal.
Fast forward two weeks and I’ve got delivery guys calling me.
Delivery Guys: Are you home? We’ve been pounding on your door for ten minutes.
Me: No, you’ve been pounding on the door of a house up the block.
Delivery Guys: Oh. Well that explains why no one is answering it.
Me: That would indeed be why.
So the guys (who are very cute) show up and take out our dying fridge out and bring the new one in. Only…guess what? It doesn’t fit. The space that Matt measured will not hold our lovely new water dispensing, ice making, side-by-side fridge.
Of course, my natural response was to tweet about it.
Delivery Guy: Are you…tweeting?
Delivery Guy: About this?
Me: There’s a fridge in the middle of my hobbit-sized kitchen. This is absolutely tweet worthy.
Delivery Guy: Did you tell people we’re good looking?
Me: Nope – I said you were hot!
Delivery Guy: Right on!
I called Matt to figure out what we wanted to do – keep the fridge and figure out a way to make it fit or have them haul the dying one back in and GO SHOPPING AGAIN. Wanna guess which one we went with?
Yeah, there’s a fridge in the middle of my kitchen making it nearly impossible to cook, clean or otherwise function. It’s been there since Wednesday and it’ll be there until Saturday when hopefully Matt can get the appropriate tools back from whomever borrowed them to whittle away even more of my pathetic amount of counter space.
I keep telling myself that it’ll be worth it in the end. In the meanwhile, I’m trying not to scream obscenities.