Refrigerators
Here’s what makes me grumpy: my refrigerator. It’s not so much the machine itself…it’s the relationship. We see each other frequently as I punch yet another hole in my belt. I understand why we need these things—hauling ice from the river wasn’t working out. Any cultural anthropologist can tell you a lot about yourself just by looking in your Fridge. Are you organized, where every vegetable has a place? Or are you a train wreck like me where every item is on its own—eggs balanced on left over chicken next to a bottle of unknown olives you just had to buy? I’ve shared a refrigerator with others for most of my life and don’t recall any meeting or conversation about the terms of agreement. What goes where? And why? And why is everyone so afraid to clean the big box? Are we afraid something will bite us? But as long as the machine does what it was built to do…keep my beer cold…we’ll get along just fine. And I’m pretty sure those were—at one time—jalapeño stuffed olives. I’m grumpy old Dan Smith listen to my “editorials” on WLHA The Big 64.
