We need to talk.
Every day I’m working hard to keep things cold, while simultaneously trying to look attractive in your kitchen. (Which if I might add, is not always neat and often smells like bacon grease.) Well, I’m here to tell you I’m really not feeling the love. I have needs too you know. I mean, would it be so hard to show a little appreciation instead of just taking me for granted like you do?
Don’t you realize what people used to go through to keep their food cold? Egyptians had to put wet pots in their front yard on cold nights just to get a little ice. How about collecting ice from a frozen lake, hauling it to an ice house, and then having to insulate it with sawdust so it could last until summer? Imagine sawdust floating in your afternoon coke; and you’re gonna lose your temper with me because I put a whole ice cube in your cup when you hit crushed?
You know what really irks me about you? It’s the way you just stand there leaning on my open door for like five minutes whenever you get hungry. Then it’s that constant open close, open close as you gaze at my shelves with that creepy stare. You think it’s easy to keep the proper temperature like that? You know, you should be kissing my coolant. There’s no way you would get away with that if I were powered by ice blocks.
And since we’re on the topic of shelves—when the heck are you going to clean them? You know back in the 1800’s when they had those fancy iceboxes you couldn’t get away with letting things rot, no sir. Those babies were made out of wood; neglect them and they’d smell worse than grandpa’s underpants. Do you think the ice they used was clean and pure? That ice came from lakes and ponds and was filled with all kinds of sediment and smells. Ice harvested near large cities could even hold runoff from the sewer. If you didn’t clean the drip pan daily the smell would penetrate through the wood and into the insulation. It would ruin your whole refrigerator, unless of course you like the smell of rotting fish. Although as long as you left that tuna in me it just might be your favorite smell.
Now, let’s talk about my looks. Don’t think for a minute I didn’t hear that comment you made to your mother about my size and color. I was born this way, ok. You need to love me for what I am. Haven’t you ever seen pictures of my great-uncle Monitor? He was born in the house of GE in 1927. Talk about funny looks, I’m Miss America compared to him—wait, I still have his picture:
That round thing on his head is a compressor. People thought it looked like the turret of the civil war gunship the Monitor, hence his name. He looks like he escaped from an early episode of Dr. Who if you ask me. How would you like to have that in your kitchen when Aunt Hilda comes over? You know she told Cousin Edna your living room looks like it was decorated by blind gypsies. How can I help but overhear: her voice is like a fog horn. But I digress.
Despite my uncles looks he wasn’t such a bad guy. You know he was the first model with a steel door? He was also the first to be fully electric. People raved about all the room he had inside, but my freezer is bigger than his whole body. Think about that the next time you complain I can’t hold dinner and a cake for 20 people.
And speaking of freezers, all my uncle could fit was a small tray of ice and a bit of beef. Nevertheless, people appreciated him for it. This was, after all, the first time they could actually make ice instead of buying it. And this is all I’m asking from you—just a little appreciation. Without me your once a week trip to the grocery store would be a daily occurrence, your ice cream would look like soup, and your meat would be as green as the hair on that guy your daughter brought home.
So please, let today be the dawn of a new day. Get rid of the salad dressing that expired two years ago, clean up last month’s soda spill, and let’s start anew. Just a little lovin’ is all I’m asking. Either that or I’m going to have to “accidentally” leak all over the floor. It’s your choice.