Sure, I'm Just a Fridge, but This Is Hard on Me, Too
TWO CENTS | JUL 7, 2020
Sure, I'm Just a Fridge,
but This Is Hard on Me, Too
Quarantine isn't easy on anybody.
You have no idea how easy my life once was.
I'll never forget the day I left the shop. The other fridges in my aisle were all like, oh, you're getting placed in the home of a millennial woman in Brooklyn? Who wears clogs and buys cheese from a local cheesemonger? LOL GOOD LUCK.
I was petrified. I didn't know what to expect. Would she stuff me to the brim with overpriced produce and organic tofu? Work me overtime to keep her overnight oats chilled all night long? My shelves caving under the pressure of her bottles of orange wine?
They say that it's the uncertainty that is most fear inducing.
The other fridges couldn't be more wrong. I had the easiest job in town. There was a whole month where I held nothing but an old tub of hummus, a soggy bag of baby carrots, and a carton of milk. It was divine — weightless, empty joy.
Then, one day in March — six loaves of bread showed up. It was weird. Disorienting. But I didn't know then what I know now. Or perhaps I was in denial. I'm working through it in therapy.
The next day? 14 avocados. Hard, green ones that would take forever to become ripe. I was distraught. Disillusioned. My world collapsing. What was she planning?? Some sort of avocado toast uprising with me as her co-conspirator and accomplice? I wasn't ready for any of it.
But I didn't have a choice. Over the next week, my shelves would become packed with cartons of oat milk, stacks and stacks of cold cuts, and enough frozen pizzas to last an apocalypse. Or in her case, 3 days.
Freezer has been on the frontline of this household crisis. My owner has turned him into some sort of war chest. I get that something is going on with my owner, but answer me this — will seven boxes of frozen chicken tenders solve it?
It's not just that she's stuffed me like a Thanksgiving turkey. I've become a hangout spot for her. I get zero alone time now. Sometimes, she just opens my door and stares, and then breaks into an ugly cry for, like, 10 minutes.
I chat with Dishwasher while my owner is in the shower, which is increasingly less. Dishie is having a rough go of it, too. His workload went from a load per week to one or two per day. Microwave has always been busy, so he's been coaching us through it. We're all struggling here.
I spend my nights praying now. I pray to see a doggy bag. Even a half-eaten pumpkin bread in a waxy Starbucks bag would be a blissful sign of my old life. I pray she won't discover a new Alison Roman recipe. How much appropriated Asian cuisine can one fridge take?
SHOOT. She's coming. Oh, god. I see grocery bags on the floor. Here she goes, piling a trough of olives on top of a bag of bread ends. Throw away the bread ends! Can you hear me? You will never eat them!
Dishie is looking at me terrified. I don't know what to tell you, Dishie! I can't stop this! I didn't choose this!
I'm losing my cool. Literally. She's keeping my door open and I’m losing my cold air. If I don’t make it, tell my family I love them.
- Fridge
Nicole Najafi is a writer and satirist in New York. Find her political wit and social commentary on Instagram at @nicolenajafi.
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