An open letter to my wife.
Why did you give away my beer fridge? No, really. Why did you do that? If I was some degenerate and we were broke and needed money, I could kinda understand it. Only, I still don’t understand it because you gave it away.
At least if you had sold it we’d have sweet, sweet money. But we (I) have nothing now except a long walk to the basement from the backyard to get a cold beer.
To be fair, the beer fridge was given to us by friends, so, yes, the initial investment was zero. Had you sold it for $20, that would have been like a billion-percent profit or something.
But you didn’t sell it, you gave it away to some fuckhead you work with who lives in an apartment.
Now sure I have some culpability in all this. I agreed with your decision at the time. But that agreement was akin to confession under torture considering my circumstances. I wasn’t in a frame of mind where I could make such a decision rationally you see.
You took advantage of my weakness but more on that later*.
The fuckhead you gave it to, the one living in the apartment — he’s likely never more than a room away from his kitchen in which, I presume, there is refrigerator. That’s like 30 steps in order to get a beer. I bet he’s placed my fridge in the room he likes to drink beer in. Now he only has to take like five steps in order to get a cold one. Lazy bastard.
Me though? I have to mount an expedition to get a beer. While I should be basking in the few rare months of warm weather in Germany, I’m instead hiring Sherpa’s, plotting desert (aka living room) crossings, descending steps into the basement and then repeating the process in reverse, as if I’m some schmuck who doesn’t have a beer fridge.
Because I am now a schmuck who used to have a beer fridge before you gave it away. Sure it was an absolute piece of shit, I know this. It raddled when it turned on, it was banged up and it had those weird hooks in the back that were once used to attach it to a kitchen countertop.
But I didn’t insist that our guests come look at it. I didn’t keep it in the dining room, guest bedroom or bathroom (except for that one time and I admitted I was wrong). No, I kept it in the garage out of sight.
The beauty of it was that is kept beer cold and handy, which I think is everything anyone could ask for in a beer fridge. Google turns up exactly no results for “beautiful beer fridge.” Go ahead check that, zero links. The temperatures this week in Germany have been in the 90s. That means by August the temperature outside will be “death in a fiery ball of heat.” If I had my beer fridge I could at least endure “death in a fiery ball of heat” with a cold beer. But I can’t. You gave away my beer fridge.
I know you hated it. You did, don’t lie. I know this because of that one time I came home and discovered you had unplugged it and exorcised it of its empty beer shrinkwrap, unopened beers and large chunks of weird-smelling freezer ice. You think I forgot that shit? Well, I didn’t. It’s filed away under “Weird shit wives do,” right next to the file about the time you cleaned out my toolbox.
Yeah, you hated my beer fridge. If we owned a shotgun, (and this is the reason we do not own a shotgun) you would have blasted a hole in it. You always hated my beer fridge.
Sure, we’ve agreed I can buy a “new” beer fridge, but that beer fridge will probably suck. You see, a proper beer fridge is something that isn’t fit for “fridge” status anymore. A proper beer fridge is one that works beautifully, but is ugly as hell and, in an epiphany, gets transformed into an amazing beer fridge. Anyone reading this who bought their beer fridge new agrees with me. If we store baby formula and food in our “beer fridge” we know instead that is a refrigerator and not a proper beer fridge. Sure it’s capable of storing beer, but it’s not a beer fridge. A proper beer fridge always smells vaguely of mold, has innumerable dents that are like notches in a headboard measuring the years of good times, and is never, ever a clean reflective white. Why did you get rid of my beer fridge?
* To be fair you asked me if we could give the beer fridge away when we were in the fucked-up stages of moving houses that involves me carrying a lot of heavy shit up and down stairs. Movers put your weight set in the basement and you need it on the top floor, OK honey. Movers put the TV you like to use in your workout room in the subbasement and you need it on the roof, OK honey. What’s that, the movers put your collection of lead-filled lifelike statues of Henry Kissinger busts in the neighbor’s basement and you want it moved to the second story only to decide after I set it down that it really looks better in our basement? OK honey.
If you’ve moved a lot you know this stage. It’s the “you mean I won’t have to carry that up/down or sideways” question. It wasn’t fair and I resent it. My muscles overruled my beer brain and concluded that the beer fridge was 40 fewer pounds they’d have to cart somewhere so they agreed. Fuck you muscles, I always hated you too.