Scene 1 – My new kitchen, middle of the work day on Thursday:

Me (humming the Flight of the Bumblebees and wondering how THAT became my theme song): “Man, I am THIRSTY. I should grab a nice, tasty beverage from my fridge.”

My Fridge: “You need to eat something.”

Me: “Says you – I’m not hungry.”

My Fridge: “All you use me for is to stow diet Coke and the occasional food for The Littles.”

Me: “One word: Divorce Diet.”

My Fridge: “That was two words.”

Me: “Yeah, well *sputters* SO?”

My Fridge: “If you’d EATEN something you’d have known that statement was, in fact, two words.”

Me: “Yeah, well, have YOU been through a divorce?”

My Fridge: “Nope. Still with the oven – we’ve been together since 1956.”

Me: “Well balls to you then, Mister.”

My Fridge: “No need to get hostile. If you ate something, you’d be less hostile.”

Me: “No, I’d be less hostile if you were the actual size and shape of a REAL fridge. You’re like the Napoleon of fridges – short man syndrome and all that.”

My Fridge: “It’s called “compact,” which you’d know if you’d EATEN anything in the last week or two.”

Me: “Shut your whore mouth. I just want a diet Coke. Can you let up for one fucking second about the “you need to eat” shit? It’s getting old.”

My Fridge: “You know you’re probably embalmed already by the amount of diet Coke you drink.”

Me: “So? Makes the mortician’s job easier.”

My Fridge: “That’s a dreary thought.”

Me: “YOU brought it up.”

My Fridge: “Touche.”

Me: “So are we done with this lecture yet? It’s been enlightening and all, but I gotta get back to work.”

My Fridge: “As you wish.”

I reach down to grab a diet Coke from the bottom shelf and, upon standing back up, thwump the back of my head on the door to the freezer, which was made well before anyone thought about safety or end user error. Rather than standing up and shaking it off, instead, I fall backward, prized diet Coke in hand, and adding insult to injury, bash my head against the chipped Formica floor and am knocked unconscious.

Minutes pass.


Scene 2: I wake up in a pool of my own blood and a throbbing headache.

Me: “That wasn’t very nice.”

My Fridge: “Neither was implying I had “short man syndrome.” That was UN-nice, which you’d know if…”

Me: “…I’d eaten? Sorry Fridge, but eating doesn’t exactly cure all that ails you.”

My Fridge: “Still, it was a mean comment.”


My Fridge: “I don’t have legs.”

Me: “SO not my problem.”

My Fridge: “Go clean yourself off – you’re dripping blood everywhere. It’s unsightly.”

Me: “So’s your FACE.”

My Fridge: “Now that was just stupid.”

Me (wobbling off to the shower): “Yeah, well.”

My Fridge (calling after me): “Don’t you think you should call someone about your head?”

Me: “I have a therapist.”

My Fridge (trails off as I get into the shower): “That’s not what I meant – you’re woozy and look like you have a concussion.”

Me: “Oh NOW you feel concern – this IS your fault, y’know.”

Refrigerator goes silent, for once, as I sit in the shower, washing off the blood.

Me (mutters): “Fucking appliances… always out to get me.

The Shower Faucet: “Have you eaten yet?”

Me: “Shut your whore mouth, assface.”

23 thoughts on “When Refrigerators Attack

  1. Diet Coke is the drink of the GODS. ALL OF THEM. Continue embalming yourself; it is the path of the divine.

    Just don’t divorce diet to dead. Hard to ball post-divorce that way.

    Hugs to you Aunt Becky!


  2. It’s one thing to have appliances talking to you, but a completely different situation when they start attacking you.

    I’d take the oven hostage just to show the fridge who’s in charge.

  3. OwOwOw! It’s usually my car that attacks me this way, although it doesn’t nag me to eat. I think it’s taking revenge for all the bumps and scrapes I’ve put on it. But I’m all like, “Oops! Sorry I seem to have backed into a tree — guess I’ve had one too many cracks on the head from the car door frame.” Huh!

  4. While I’m a firm believer in Diet Coke, I do wish you’d eat something. There’s Divorce Diet and then there’s giving yourself a concussion. I mean, I know it was the refrigerator’s fault, but still. Hugs.

  5. Classic! Love this, I too am on the divorce diet, my vice being coffee..I just my Keurig doesn’t start talking back or beating me up! Great blog..

  6. So glad you were able to find humor in cracking your head open! I’m still pissed about the douchiness involved in the aftermath of that.

    Bubble wrap would be a good thing. But maybe that evil freezer handle is the one that should be wrapped in bubble wrap…

  7. My stove is the one trying to kill me. Thank goodness for circuit breakers.


    “So? Makes the mortician’s job easier.”

    That’s Aunt Becky… Always thinking of others.

    That’s why we love her so much.

  8. when you start arguing with your fridge, it might be time to consider professional help…

    wait… I’ve been doing that for years…. fuck.. nevermind.

  9. Ok, you (and some of your commenters) do seriously need to eat!! Or maybe switch to coffee. Or just write a book! This post was hilarious!

  10. I don’t want to badmouth divorce diets or their ilk, as I haven’t been there yet, but I would be remiss in my obligation as your niece if I did not remind you of two things: Thing Number One: = bacon; Thing Number Two = Pillsbury Orange Danish ****

    **** with apologies to Dr. Seuss, who had a very different perception of Thing Number One and Thing Number Two

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