I wish I could say, like Garrison Keillor on Prairie Home Companion “…it’s been a quiet week in Lake Wobegon, Minnesota.” But that doesn’t work on so many levels. I was referring to myself, and then realized Minnesota hasn’t had an easy time lately either.
But back to me.
I came home from three relaxing days in the mountains to discover that my refrigerator had died—taking its entire contents with it. The repairman explained that fixing it would cost the same as buying a new one, and, incredibly, Lowe’s delivered a replacement the very next day.
I bought the only model that would fit the space, waited the requisite 24 hours for it to be up and running, and stocked it with fresh groceries to get me through the week. The following morning I discovered that, although I had purchased a refrigerator, I actually got a freezer. The container of milk was as heavy as a block of cement. My next-door neighbor kindly supplied milk for my morning coffee.
Since the issue could not be resolved over the phone (wow— Lowe’s AI chat is especially useless), I returned to Lowe’s and ordered another refrigerator, this time with a freezer on top—the only model that would fit. I was not happy about it, but didn’t feel I had much choice, and I was told I’d have to wait an entire week.
Sweet friends loaned me an under-the-counter refrigerator, which we set up in the middle of the kitchen. Once again, I bought groceries. Once again, when I poured milk into my morning coffee, it fell out in chunks. None of us had thought to check the temperature. Sigh. Once again, my next-door neighbor….
She suggested that since I had a week to wait anyway, we should check other stores to see if I could find what I actually wanted: a plain vanilla, no-frills refrigerator. We went to Home Depot (lovely, but no refrigerator), Best Buy (especially bad customer service), and finally BrandSmart, where we met a Venezuelan salesman who spoke Italian (!).
There, I ordered what’s called a “convertible freezer,” meaning it can function either as a freezer OR a refrigerator. They’re made for hunters who keep a freezer in the garage—or, more accurately, for hunters whose wives make them keep their meat in the garage. Given my now seven-day history with freezers, this made me nervous. The Venezuelan assured me it would work; the delivery men were less convinced. They plugged it in, set it to “freeze,” instructed me to wait another nail-biting 24 hours, and then manually switch it to “refrigerate.” To be safe, I bought an appliance thermometer as an impartial third party. And it all… worked.
Nine days, four stores, four refrigerators, two supermarket runs and several days of gastric distress later, I finally have a functioning refrigerator. There are still a few minor details to work out, but in the end it’s pretty nice. When I open the door, a little bell rings that, for some reason, calls to mind Lily Tomlin as Ernestine, the phone operator on Laugh-In: one ringy-dingy… two ringy-dingy.. It makes me smile.