essay

Refrigerator Rules

The trouble started with a broken refrigerator. I had owned the trusty Kenmore since the early 90s, so it was no surprise when the machine ground to a halt with a rhythmic whirr, chig-a-log-ic-choo, and final bump. Other than the mounds of condiment packets, individually wrapped slices of cheese, boxes of cat ear-mite medicine and a roll of Kodak film (circa 1999), any food contained in the broken fridge was purely accidental. I grabbed the last melting Nutty Buddy, and decided to watch Oprah until my boyfriend was ready to go to Sears.

While I love Oprah, I rarely watch her show. It’s usually the catalyst for some self-realization that ultimately costs me all kinds of money. With today’s gas prices, I can’t afford to be that enlightened. This day proved to be no exception.

The show topic, home makeovers, seemed innocuous. During the episode, a designer good-naturedly ribbed a couple and then effortlessly transformed their avocado green and shaggy orange home from a troll-like fur ball into an adult oasis by using simple decorating rules: no clutter, use color, and of course, buy expensive furniture. I got this strange feeling of desire, and should have napped until the feeling passed, but I needed to go to Sears for a refrigerator.

On the trip, I reminded my boyfriend of the rules of dealing with sales people. One must remain detached, aloof. One mustn’t listen to carefully crafted pitches or double talk, and the most important, only consider items on sale.

We immediately found ourselves standing in front of a side-by-side refrigerator with the finish of spun silver. A water and ice dispenser graced the outside. I felt different just opening the doors. It was the only model not on sale.

“This is beautiful,” I gushed to the saleslady, forgetting my own lecture.

“Ooh, the bins!” One of our bins had been jammed since Bush took office.

“They’re not bins,” she said. “Climate controlled food compartments.”

I was impressed. Better than bins, and well worth the extra money. She continued. “This panel displays the inside temperature, when to change the water filter...,” and rattled off several other features, but it was all wasted breath. She had me at “beverage center.” There was only one thing left to say. “How soon can you deliver?” I asked.

I stood in the kitchen admiring the blue lights on the door and the sparkling satin surface. My eyes moistened.

“Is something wrong with the refrigerator?” asked my boyfriend.

“No, it’s beautiful,” I answered. That was the problem. It was so beautiful, the microwave cart looked downright dingy in comparison.

“How can the refrigerator make the microwave cart look bad?” he asked.

He obviously didn’t know the first thing about decorating. “The microwave cart is in the bedroom, on the other side of the house!” It functioned as his night stand.

“Exactly,” I said. “We’ve been living like college freshmen too long.”

“I like how we live,” he said. “Why the sudden concern?” But I was feeling the power of the new refrigerator, the power of change. It was intoxicating. I wanted more.

“What do you suggest?” he asked, looking a little worried.

“Undocumented Husband,” I answered. He seemed relieved, then asked, “Have you been watching Oprah again?”

The next day I had lunch with my friend Frieda. She sensed the difference in me, as well. “Our refrigerator broke,” I began.

“Uh oh,” she said. “Did the mustard packets get warm?” I let this pass. I was more mature now.

“We bought a new refrigerator. Now I have to redecorate the bedroom.”

She understood. That’s the great thing about Frieda. As an artist, she doesn’t need a lot of dots to get the picture. Besides that, Frieda understood the slippery slope of decorating. She was going through her own decorating changes, but headed in the opposite direction. As I was boxing up my glass blown unicorn collection, she was busy covering her Ralph Lauren fabrics with big purple dinosaurs and replacing her Ethan Allen furniture with fuzzy teddy bear chairs. The circle of life can be messy.

“I’m just doing one bedroom,” I said, “and an end table. Maybe a couch.” She smiled knowingly.

“I can stop anytime,” I protested. She remained silent.

“I’m emotionally ready to create a grown up environment,” I said.

“Have you been watching Oprah again?” she asked.

On the way home I stopped by a furniture store and found a lovely dresser, two night stands and a mirror. It was more than I wanted to spend. “I have to bring my Undocumented Husband in to look at it,” I explained to the salesman. He said he understood, but held confusion in his eyes. “The drawers have a self-closing feature,” he said, “and cedar bottoms.” He opened a drawer, then partially closed it, letting it gently glide shut. There was only one thing left to ask.

“How soon can you deliver?”

The next day, while demonstrating the self-closing feature of the new bedroom set to my Undocumented Husband, I mused on the irony. “The new refrigerator tells us when to change the filter, the dresser shuts its own drawers. The more grown-up the furniture, the less responsible I need to be.”

“How much is all this grown-up stuff costing us?” he asked, but before I could answer I noticed how scrappy the walls looked.

 “We need to paint. Right away,” I said.

He didn’t seem concerned. “It took you six years and 150 paint chips to decide to paint the bathroom white.”

“It’s not white,” I said. “It’s Buttermilk.” The man is positively colorblind. It’s almost like he’s not even trying.

Then it hit me. What I really learned from the Oprah show were the rules of change. Change has its own distinct set of rules. Sometimes in order to let change happen, you have to break your own old rules. Then a new, wonderful and beautifully decorated world can emerge.

We went to the kitchen and I opened the freezer door. A blast of cool air fell on my toes. “Hey,” I said. “Have you done this? It feels great!”

“Don’t stand there too long,” he said. “We can’t afford to refrigerate the whole house.” He had a point. The dining room rug was looking shabby.

Stefanie Fife lives in Los Angeles with her Undocumented Husband and two cats, neither of which are interested in rules of any kind. She splits her time between playing the cello for movies, television and rock stars, and writing. 

~ Stefanie Fife