That’s, Like, So Not Cool
My my, we’re half-way through September and my writing here has slowed to the speed of a leaky faucet. Well, not the speed of my leaky faucet, which is rapidly causing my counter and, I suspect, the ceiling of the apartment beneath mine, to rot away. But who has time to worry about that when one’s fridge breaks down, and the cost of repairing it is predictably in the Why-Don’t-I-Just-Buy-A-New-One-Then? range.
You see, I live in this strange city where tenants are often expected to own their own major appliances, despite the utter lunacy of moving anyone’s crappy, second-hand fridge to another apartment. I’m sure home-owners that have those chrome-plated, ice-making, man-eating jobs are very protective of their appliances, but then homeowners usually hire professional movers. Everyone else makes do with whatever is there, generally, or, in my case, finds the newest-looking old fridge for sale at a questionable second-hand appliance store.
Have you ever moved a fridge? I’m positive it’s an experience that nobody has twice, because the instant you and your gullible friends start moving your fridge down a flight of stairs, there is an overwhelming and collective realization that, hey, It’s Just Not Worth It. Especially when a month later you visit your befridged friend and he shamefully admits that the fridge stopped working and they had to throw it out.
If I hadn’t been close to shedding tears while writing the cheque, the cliché of the refrigerator repair guy might have amused me. With a sense humour dry enough to kill a Mojavian cactus, the short, rotund old-timer informed me that the part I needed would be “very expensive.” My wallet also appreciated the requisite period of eating out for all meals while the fridge defrosted.
I’m trying, of course, not to let all of this cloud my hopes for a new PowerBook.
Previously: Soda-pop
Subsequently: Meanwhile, back at the <ranch>
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