Like shopping for a refrigerator.
Since Tom was out of town at the time of our great refrigerator blow out, I took it upon myself to replace it.
I was on a quest to purchase a spare fridge for the laundry room and spent half the morning pouring over appliance websites, models, customer reviews, etc. I was very careful to measure the height and width of our current fridge and compare the cubic feet specifications as well. I even called Sears and Home Depot to ask a live person a few questions I couldn't find answers to online and after dissecting all the research I made a decision and went ahead with my purchase. I felt confident, proud and even a bit excited to welcome this new appliance into our home.
When Tom returned from his trip I told him I bought a little something for the house and when I pulled up the link to show him he said squarely, "You did not." I asked, "Why do you not have any faith in me??" Then I proceeded to show him my notebook filled with models, price comparisons and answered questions from my day of research. And he was pretty impressed. Then he asked, "So you measured correctly??" I huffed and puffed and said, "Of course I measured! What do you think I am - a dumbass??" He seemed satisfied with that and said, "It looks great. I think you did a good job." That made me smile.
Fridge arrival day.
So I said I measured the height and the width and even the cubic feet inside the fridge right?? Well, I guess I overlooked one tiny little detail. That, being depth. I understand there are varying degrees of depth-ness to a refrigerator but since this was going into the laundry room I really didn't pay much attention to those.
But apparently, depth matters:
I should point out that our old fridge was counter depth and sat neatly tucked between the wall and the dryer, giving Wrigley full body access to his food and water bowls.
Well now Wrigs has to eat and drink on an angle and let me tell you, he doesn't seem too thrilled with this arrangement.
"WTF am I supposed to do here??"
So obviously I effed up and Tom was right to cross examine my decision to buy this beast without him but I just didn't want to give him that satisfaction and admit defeat quite yet. Instead, my plan was to go along like all was fine and it was exactly what I expected. (Even as I type this now and look up at this picture I realize how ridiculous this must seem.)
He arrived home from work that day as I was in the kitchen preparing dinner so I rushed down the hall -literally hopping on one foot as I turned the corner - when I hear, "OH MY GOD! WHAT THE HELL??"
I casually walk in the laundry room, catch my breath and say, "Oh yes, our new fridge arrived."
His mouth is open so wide I could stick my fist in it as he says, "Are you kidding? It's GIGANTOR!"
I retorted with, "Is that even a word? I don't think it is. And it's not that bad, plus it has more freezer space which we definitely need. Come on, let's eat!" and I turned to head back to the kitchen with what I can only describe as a Skeletor look on my face.
"You didn't measure the DEPTH did you?"
"I measured Tom. It's fine."
"This is most gigantic refrigerator I have ever seen IN MY LIFE and IT'S IN MY HOUSE! LOOK! There's barely any room for Wrigley's bowls."
(*I should make one thing clear, when I use caps it means he's somewhat intense in his delivery but it's not like an episode of Cops. He's definitely not screaming at me. In this case, he even had a sheepish grin on his face, probably because, dare I say it...he was right...again. DAMN IT.)
I head back down the hall and stand at the doorway to the laundry room as he opens the door smacking Wrig's water dish, spilling waves of water onto the floor. I try to remain as serious and convicted in my stance that this is in fact, the most perfect fridge we could ever have. And then...Wrigs walks in. He stands between me and Tom and then does this 3 point-pivot-type of maneuver since he's trapped between the fridge and his bowls. I give him an evil eye willing my thoughts to his doggy brain, "Please exit gracefully NOW!" But he clumsily backs up into my legs and then scampers to run out of the room. Of course Tom says, "See?? The poor dog can't even turn around!" I tell him that "Wrigley is a drama queen who won't even walk down the steps to go out if there's a LEAF in his way. Plus he doesn't like change. This will take some getting used to but he's a dog. He'll adjust. And so will you! Can we please eat now?"
He relents, we have a nice dinner even though every few moments he has some snide comment about the "world's largest refrigerator."
I kindly let him know that his jokes are funny now but in day or even an hour they will be dull. He says he needs to get them out of his system because he's still in shock, I say fine whatever.
The next couple days he doesn't really say much more about it, but then one afternoon he goes to the fridge to get a drink and while opening the door he starts to sing what sounded like a Bob Dylan song, in a Bob Dylan voice. But I couldn't quite recognize the song so I moved down the hall to listen closely to the lyrics:
"Thiiiiiiiiis is the biiiiiiiigest refrigerator in the laaaaaaaaand..."
...and it's insiiiiiiiiiide myyyyyyyyy houuuuuuuuse."
"I haaaaaave the worrrrrrrrld's larrrrrrrrrgest friiiiiiiiiiiidge."
He was trying to mimmick Visions of Johana.
And I must admit, he did a pretty good job.
Plus, I think the fridge helps with the laundry room acoustics.