My ego was bruised, but that’s nothing new.
So I’m going back for a second class.
Namaste.
Brain Freeze
Francesca
I’m being gaslighted by my refrigerator.
For months, I’d been suspicious of my freezer, specifically that it’s thawing and refreezing my food. A bag of frozen peas, once loose and flexible, is transmuted into a solid block of bumpy ice by the time I go to cook them. No matter how many times I’ve sneaked “just a spoonful” from a pint of ice cream—yes, living alone rules—the ice cream’s surface will be rendered smooth and flat, the evidence of my nibbling erased.
“Maybe I didn’t break my diet after all,” I’d say to myself the next night I opened the container.
Add “enabler” to my list of grievances.
But I procrastinated on calling an appliance-repair company. After all, I wasn’t completely sure it was broken.
Until I went on vacation. Upon return, I opened the fridge and was hit with a putrid stench. The interior of the fridge was balmy, and the food inside looked like a science experiment.
Through the nausea, I felt validated.
The repairman who examined it said the ‘temperature regulator’ needed to be replaced. I explained my prior concerns about the freezer, and he said it was likely the cause of that, too. I paid for the service and the new part.
But a few weeks later, my freezer was slowing down again—this time I was certain. My shrinking ice cubes looked like the victim of global warming, missing only a tiny polar bear waving a white flag.
Even my bag of Ezekiel bread was sweating like a whore in church.
Thankfully, the repair service had a ninety-day guarantee, and this was less than a month later. I called, and they sent out a different repairman.
I caught the new guy up to speed. He opened the freezer.
“Feels cold to me.”
You pay extra for the expertise.
“It’s cold now, but it’s not maintaining a freezing temperature. Look, I’m not crazy.” I brought out Exhibit A, a box of fruit pops, and showed him how each popsicle was a wonky shape, half off its stick, its cellophane bag filled with red goo.
He pinched the popsicle between his fingers. “That’s frozen.”
“But look at it. It clearly melted at some point.”
“They could have been like that when you bought them.”
“No, they were fine before.”
“How could I know that for sure?”
“Because … I’m telling you. It’s the reason I knew something was wrong. It’s why I called you.” I was so bewildered by his skepticism, I actually laughed. “Do you think I’m lying?”
He smirked and shrugged, like that was a definite possibility.
Women, am I right? Always crying wolf for refrigerator-attention.
It was like I had slipped down a wormhole of retro gender dynamics. I stood barefoot and helpless in my kitchen while a man patronizingly explained how I don’t know what I know.
“A freezer cycles to maintain its temperature. That’s how a thermostat works.”
Dude, don’t mansplain cycles to a woman.
“Cycles to the point where things melt? I swear, it’s malfunctioning. This happened before the fridge broke down a few weeks ago, and it’s doing it again. Can you think what might cause that?”
He threw up his hands. Then he began writing something on his clipboard.
At this point the only thing icing over was me. “So you don’t know how to fix it.”
“I can’t fix something that isn’t broken.” He tore off a sheet and handed it to me. It was a bill.
I explained that this was still under the last repair’s warranty.
“The warranty is for the repair, not the service call.”
“Right, but the last repair didn’t work. My fridge is broken again, hence this service call.”
“Only the part we replaced is guaranteed, it still works.”
Ah yes, the ‘temperature regulator.’ Works like a charm.
But this was bizarro-world, where up is down and hot is cold.
I handed over my credit card so I could get this guy out of my apartment and return to sanity.
The truth is, the fridge is nearly fifteen years old, I don’t want to put any more money into it. I’ve decided I’m going to buy a new one entirely.
Soon.
I’ve continued to live with my freezer, convinced it’s not safe to eat anything from, but reluctant to pull the trigger on buying a new one. Why?
Now it’s in my head—what if I am crazy?
Leave a Tip
Lisa
There’s a new restaurant in London and you go there to eat naked.
I’m not making this up.
This restaurant hasn’t even opened yet but it’s already getting major attention, and not for the food. I went to the restaurant’s website and it didn’t even have a menu posted.
Food isn’t the point, would be my guess.
Like nobody complains about the plot in porn. Even though there’s never a twist and the ending is always happy.
Step up your game, pornographers.
You might think you would never go to a naked restaurant, but it has a waiting list of thirty thousand.
I’m not exaggerating, for once.
The restaurant is called The Bunyadi, and I’m not sure what a bunyadi is, but let’s pretend it’s something usually covered by your underwear.
So this is a restaurant where you bring your own bunyadi.
B.Y.O.B.
And you and your bunyadi eat completely naked, in an area the restaurant calls “pure.”
I would call it “hairy,” “smelly,” and “vaguely unsanitary.”
But that’s just me.
There’s also a “non-naked” section, where the stiffs sit.
Or presumably, the less stiff.
I don’t know, it’s kind of confusing.
I think you’re allowed to put your napkin in your lap.
In fact, you’d better.
Still, I would never go to a naked restaurant. I don’t want anyone to see me eating naked. In fact, I don’t want anybody to see me sitting down naked. I own an entire wardrobe of shirts and sweaters to hide what I really look like when I sit down, because of my rolls.
If I ate at a naked restaurant, I’d have to hide my rolls behind the rolls.
In fact, my rolls are the first thing I’d want to hide, not my breasts or my bunyadi.
I bet I’m not alone in this, as a middle-aged woman.
Am I right, sisters?
Aren’t our rolls keeping Chico’s in business?
If every girl’s best friend is an elastic waistband, every girl’s other best friend is the insanely blousy shirt that goes over it to hide our rolls.
I’ve seen it called Goddesswear, which is as good a euphemism as any.
It’s really clothes for women who have better things to do than sit-ups.
Me.
I shudder to imagine a world where all the restaurants turn naked.
It would be a disaster for middle-aged women.
All of a sudden, we’d start cooking like fiends.
Like we used to when we were feeding families or had something to prove.
Back when we cared.
Do you remember those days?
I don’t.
Maybe the way you feel about a naked restaurant depends on whether you have an awesome body or not.