Forehead and Forearms vs. Fridge (Or I Lose)

Eight years ago, I bought a used fridge from Craigslist when I moved into my apartment. I nearly had to sandblast it to remove years of grease and curry powder from every square inch of it, but I got a good deal — and a good workout in the process.

A few years later, I painted it with stainless steel paint to hide its glaring whiteness. In the process of pulling the handles off to paint the appliance, one of the handles sprang back and hit me in the face.

Hard.

I had a massive contusion on my forehead for weeks. (I had to buy a ridiculous hat from H&M to hide it.)

That fridge served me well for years (minus the forehead assault), but it has been on its way out for the last year or so. I refuse to buy a new fridge for a place I’m renting on principle so I started scouring Craigslist for a replacement.

After a month, I found a candidate… in Compton.

Yes, Dr. Dre’s City of Compton.

Apparently, the guy had been trying to sell it for a long time, but everyone bailed on him when he told him where he lived.

People are idiots.

I mean, maybe I’M an idiot for driving 21 miles to go into a stranger’s garage with him, but considering the deal I got on a stainless steel fridge I’d say I won.

The only catch?

I didn’t have anyone to help me haul it home.

I didn’t think that was going to be a big deal because I moved my last fridge by myself. I figured I’d just rent a truck with a ramp and a dolly again and I’d be fine.

Yeah, not so much…

I didn’t realize how heavy the fridge was because the guy who sold it to me put it in the truck for me. Maybe the grimacing and the sweat on his brow should have tipped me off, but he was kind of small, so I didn’t really think too much about it until it was my turn to haul the thing solo.

I struggled to tip it on its end to roll it, but I finally managed. I held it at the edge of the ramp preparing to roll it down, and I grimaced in pain as the weight of the enormous appliance rested on my forearms.

OMIGOD, it hurt.

Once I was sure I had the wheels aligned properly on the ramp, I started the slow descent to the street. By this point, my arms were aching, and I was grateful my legs had the strength to keep the fridge (and me) from flying uncontrollably into the street.

I survived that ordeal and made it across the sidewalk, but I was absolutely out of breath. It turns out stainless steel weighs A LOT more than whatever my last fridge was made out of (clouds and cotton candy?!?).

Totally spent and in pain, I looked at the two small steps standing between me and my building. They weren’t that big. They should not have been daunting, but my forearms were already aching. I couldn’t face steps alone.

So I started my SOS texts.

I generally try to avoid damsel in distressing it, but this situation was out of my hands.

My friend Lauren offered to come over because she is amazing. While I was waiting for her to arrive, my neighbor Mel came upon me sitting on the steps, looking a bit bruised and pathetic.

It turns out his grandfather had owned a moving company back east and he offered to help as well.

Long story short (too late), Lauren and Mel bailed me out of a situation wisdom probably could have prevented in the first place, but now I have a fabulous fridge.

(I bought them gift cards to the bougie pet store up the street because I know when I’m indebted to incredible people, and they both have rescue dogs who deserve pampering.)

So, anyway, here’s the appliance that almost killed me and my arms:

Welcome home, fridge. Thank you for hosting my bacon and my beer.

Welcome home, fridge. Thank you for hosting my bacon and my beer. You’re worth it.

Now I’m adoring it while icing my arms because moving it all but kind of killed me.

Repurposing an already indispensable item = winning.

Winning with wine pacs.

If you can handle gore, this is why I need the ice:

Fridge > forearms

Fridge > forearms

IMG_6081

I swear the only abusive relationship I’m in is with a large appliance.

It’s actually a little worse today than it was when I took these photos last night, but I’ll spare you those pics

Instead, I’ll conclude with this: both fridges did damage to my forehead and my forearms, but I’m grateful for cold food… and the angels who helped me haul the pretty new one into my place.

My crew rules.

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Of Owls and Strollers (Or I’m Planning a Baby Shower)

So, it’s 2:34 am and there is a band of drunken revelers on the sidewalk below my window. They’re too drunk to know they’re actually yelling at each other and not just having a regular conversation. Also there are about 15 of them. My dogs are yelling back. I sort of wish I were drunk on the street disturbing dogs and the peace, but I’m in my jammies blogging and listening to The Righteous Brothers.

Why am I writing when I should be sleeping? Well, I can’t come home and go straight to bed. Ever. No matter how tired I am. I need all of this time to unwind after being with people. Sometimes I feel so wound up at midnight or whatever that I’m temped to go running. And then I remember I don’t run.

See, I just returned home from a baby shower planning dinner, and I now have my marching orders. They involve finger sandwiches, cupcakes, and sachets. Mercifully, there are no cake pops involved.

During the planning session I learned all kinds of scary things about being constantly kicked in the ribcage and having a tiny person mashing about on your bladder day and night. And I learned about strollers.

My friend showed me hers. It looks like it’s on hydraulics. After witnessing a brief demo, I informed her that she will have to install speakers so she can play Dre while she pushes the kid around the 90210. (Yes, that’s really her zip code.)

She also showed me another stroller by the same company. And it has a video. The video involves the sort of techno music you’d hear at a rave where people wear glow sticks, Ed Hardy, and too much cologne. You HAVE to watch it. The thing has space-aged lights. And it charges your iPhone. You absolutely cannot make this shit up.

So I guess strollers have gotten sick since the ’70s. I mean, mine looked like this:

The fat baby in the rickety ride is me. The bear next to me answers to, “O.J.” even though there’s an apple on his bib.

I’m sure the thing was all dangerous by modern standards but it had room for friends… whether I wanted them around or not…

I am the big, bald bully on the right.

I’m not saying things were better in the ’70s or anything. Because people responsible for my wellbeing did let me out of the house looking like this:

There are many crimes against aesthetics happening all at once here.

So anyway, I have nothing helpful to say tonight except that I’m going to make owl cupcakes like these:

Photo courtesy of jennycookies.com

They’re based on the owls from Hello, Cupcake which is a totally fabulous book that I happen to own.

And my sachets will be inspired by these darling little owl pillows I found on Pinterest:

Photo courtesy of April Foss on Etsy.

Just to reiterate: there will be no cake pops at this party.

I’m saving that horror for my birthday party the next day. The guest list for that is at 135 and counting. More on that later. There will be crocodiles involved….