Sam is a stainless steel, French door, bottom freezer, 28.5 cubic foot capacity, gorgeous hunk of home appliance with a sexy blue-light LED display above his ice and water dispenser. He came into my life one Sunday after my old beater of a fridge gave up the ghost on a Friday night and started spoiling food on Saturday afternoon with no hope of a repairman until Monday.
Gerald and I had gone to Sears to “just look” at refrigerators, and there he was–the most handsome, virile, exciting refrigerator I had ever laid my eyes on. He was so clean, so roomy, so conveniently appointed. He was on sale. He was in stock.
So, Gerald strapped him in the back of the pick-up, drove him home, wrestled him through the back door–the only door that would accommodate his broad shoulders–slid him in place, and plugged him in.
It was no surprise when my friend, Maggie, as she swung wide his doors to admire him that first morning she made his acquaintance, said,”Well, hello! Good morning,” in her most “come hither” manner. I later realized Maggie had received a call from her husband on her bluetooth just as she opened the refrigerator doors and was using that sultry tone to greet him. But it wouldn’t have been over the top if she had been responding to Sam, what with the icy blue gaze of his interior display lights, easily accessible crispers, and inviting deli drawer. I know. I’ve had my moments.
I have lived with Sam for a little over a year and a half now, and although I won’t say the honeymoon is over, I have discovered some of his quirks that annoy me. For instance, he thinks we should drink filtered water, which I guess is a good idea if you don’t have the sparkling well water we have. We don’t want to filter it. But I can’t explain that to Sam. He came with a filter, and he insisted that the water that he served ran through it. So, now that the filter has expired, Sam is disgruntled and shows his disapproval of our drinking habits with an angry red icon of an unhappy filter on his display panel. I am ignoring it. I won’t get into that argument with him
The only serious rift in our relationship comes when there is an interruption in power. When that happens, I unplug Sam for ten minutes, per the owner’s manual, so that he can gather his wits. Here’s where it goes wrong. Sometimes Sam sulks for as long as 24 to 48 hours, all the while flashing zeroes at me. As long as he is flashing, he can’t deliver. That is, he can’t dispense ice–cubes or crushed. I’m sorry, but no amount of pretty-boy good looks can make up for that.