11:29 p.m. - 2001-10-20
Yes...exactly what I needed to procrastinate.
Anyway...I went to a wedding today. Actually just the reception. It was pretty fun.
I also talked to my landlord this morning regarding our broken antique fridge. Now I know that the average age out there in diary land is about 9 so this will be new to you, but for all the older folk, let me spark some feelings of nostalgia by describing a relic from your past.
Back in the day, they used to have what were called "ice boxes". These were insulated cabinets that had a tray for a block of ice to be placed in to keep the interior cold, and in turn, keep your perishables from perishing. Now for my Canadian brothers and sisters, bear with me. I know that this technology has yet to become available in all areas up there, but when it does you'll be free of the ol' salting the caribou, smoking the salmon, and burying the moose meat in the snow ordeal.
Anyway, after the icebox came the innovation we call refrigeration. This is made possible by compressing air and releasing it which somehow causes the air to cool...look, I'm not a fucking scientist. You're already on the internet, go look it up on google after your done with this entry if your so hot to know how it works. Shit.
So any way, the first models were just refrigerators with no freezer. Then came a version that had the freezer inside the main door of the refrigerator with a tiny little fucked up door of their own. This is where our deluxe model falls on the food preservation timeline. Yep. The same kind I had when I was five and we were too poor to upgrade to what would have been a long overdue a new model back then. The kind you have to defrost every other month or else all your Popsicle's, frozen entrees and half used glow sticks are married in one big block of ice.
Worse than that, the little fucked up door is broken, so all our ice-cream melts and our eggs freeze solid. There are cracks in the interior that have been filled with some sort of painters caulk, so it is probably leaking poisonous gasses that cause me to write wacked diary entries, and it creates it's own bad smell that Jane and I have to mask by leaving leftovers in there for months on end. I swear that's why we do it.
But the landlord wants to fix it.
Or split the cost of a new one.
All I can say right now is my fucking ass. The only way I'll agree to that is if they let us keep all the money we get when we take it to the Antiques Road Show and find out that it's worth twenty G's because it's older than dirt.
I bet Jeffery Dalmers landlord never pulled this shit, and all I want is enough room to freeze fishsticks for chrissakes.
You better believe to be continued...