I've been locked in a struggle with myself for months now, battling a wicked and illicit lust that haunts my dreams and lurks around the edges of my waking thoughts. I know I should be content with what I already have at home, but I want something more. Something better. Something new and exciting. Something frost-free and high-capacity, preferably with side-by-side doors and a crushed ice dispenser.
That's right. The object of my depraved desire is not another man, but a new refrigerator. (You can breathe now, P.)
I'm not just being fickle here. Our current fridge is nine years old and has only worked properly for four of those years -- it fell off the appliance dolly the last time we moved, and it's leaked and made strange noises ever since. Our bedroom shares a wall with the kitchen, and at least a couple of times a week, I have to get out of bed, drag myself down the hall, and hit a magic spot on the freezer door so the fridge will shut up and let me sleep. Plus, I regularly realize that a inch-deep pool of water has formed under the crisper drawers and needs to be mopped up. Sometimes I don't realize it soon enough, and then there's a mold colony floating on top of the pool like a sporiferous Atlantis. Ugh.
So anyway, I've been drooling over appliance ads and lurking around the refrigerator section at Best Buy for six months, dreaming of a shiny new fridge. I had almost talked myself out of it -- I have a tax refund coming, but there are lots of other things we could/should spend that money on -- and then last night, as I was soaking up yet another cold lake of leakage with paper towels, I snapped. I'm going to call an appliance repair place this week, and if fixing the old fridge costs more than a couple of hundred dollars, I am buying a new one, dang it. And I'm going to name it Fabio and kiss it every night before bed.