Dear Kid,
We have a new refrigerator. This is very nice as the old one was really on its last legs (by which I mean it was a large unattractive piece of art in our kitchen that was slightly cooler than the sun). It’s nice to be able to get a yogurt without walking to the basement.
The new refrigerator is white (check), it fits in the refrigerator space (check), it has a super clean handle (I love new appliances), and it is considerably smaller than our old one (what, what?).
As you may recall, Dad and I had more than a few several many conversations about getting a new refrigerator, most of which I wanted nothing to do with. I made my preference to be left out of the decision-making process clear by singing “Don’t care” in several keys. Because I wanted nothing to do with choosing a refrigerator (other than “white, fits, and makes you happy”), I have absolutely no right to complain. And I’m not complain at all. I am merely Stating Fact.
Several of the conversations we (only sort of) had were about the size of the refrigerator. As in Dad saying, “We don’t want a smaller refrigerator, right?” and me saying, “Right.” So you would think we wouldn’t have a smaller refrigerator. But we do.
Dad swears our new frig is exactly the same size as the old one. And if by “exactly” he means “not at all” then he’s absolutely correct. Any other definition and not so much.
In fact, as Pi and I see it, there is not a single interior dimension in which this lovely white refrigerator with the sparkling clean handle (enjoy it while it lasts) is not smaller. In most cases, considerably smaller.
I have not spoken with Dad about this. I do not intend to speak to Dad about this (other than to confirm that Pi was correct in her assessment of the size–at her request). I intend to enjoy my white refrigerator and all its weird lighting (yeah, the light is weird) and its smaller interior for the next 15 years or so.
This is one of those rare cases where I am Going to Keep My Mouth Shut.
Don’t bother pointing out that I am talking about it here. Dad doesn’t read the blog. Apparently me in real life is all the me he can handle.
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