A Strange Labor of Love

The refrigerator guy is coming Tuesday to repair our 2009 model Whirlpool Gold series fridge. It is a beautiful, spacious machine with great features, and I was sad to find it was making less and less cold as the last couple of weeks progressed, so I expect it needs refrigerant or a part, but it’s such a great machine, it is worth fixing.

Our broken-ish Whirlpool Gold Series fridge sparkles after I cleaned it tonight.
Our broken-ish Whirlpool Gold Series fridge sparkles after I cleaned it tonight.

I moved all the perishables into the much older garage fridge, which we had repaired when we got the new one, for occasions like Thanksgiving, or when I need a cold water while mowing, or like this one now.

Our perishables have been exiled to the fridge in the garage.
Our perishables have been exiled to the fridge in the garage.

In advance of the repair, I decided to unplug it, remove all the removables, and clean it. The design is remarkably friendly to this task, and before I knew it, I had all the shelves and compartments in my bathtub for a hot soap shower, and the inside of the “icebox” (as Abby calls it) and freezer sparkling like the day we bought it. It was a surprisingly fun activity. My sister will tell you that cleaning, when it goes well, is ingrained in us by our mother Sarah Jo.

I will take a moment to carefully editorialize about the state of sales and service in our world (careful since my own profession relies on direct sales): as I was attempting to set up Tuesday’s repair, the specialist on the other end of the phone aggressively, almost insistently, tried to sell me a blanket warranty for all the other appliances in our house. I let her talk, but I didn’t buy anything else but the one repair, and here’s why: if someone is selling you something this aggressively, they are making a fortune off of you, and not doing you any favors. Extended warranties are another example. Stay away.

I bought six button batteries, probably weighing less than an unladen European swallow, and Amazon Prime sent them in a box big enough for a pair of hiking boots. Is this in any way good for the environment? Couldn't they have just as easily put them in an envelope?
I bought six button batteries, probably weighing less than an unladen European swallow, and Amazon Prime sent them in a box big enough for a pair of hiking boots. Is this in any way good for the environment? Couldn’t they have just as easily put them in an envelope?

3 Comments

  1. “…if someone is selling you something this aggressively…”

    I wish they’d put a note in my file, letting them know this *always* means I’ll say no. Little turns me off faster than aggressive sales pitches.

  2. I have not often ordered products online, but the packaging has always seemed haphazardly chosen. Your battery box is a prime (pun intended) example, worse than most I’ve seen.

    And yes, I caught your Holy Grail reference, which was well used.

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