It is finally here.  Our new refrigerator was delivered yesterday.

Hallelujah.

This has been such an adventure.  And you know how much I LOVE adventures.

When I ordered it Home Depot said it would be delivered October 29.  You may have noticed, this is not October 29 – nor is yesterday.

I got a call before October 29 telling me that it would not be delivered until November 11.

This made me very unhappy.  But I was so worn out just trying to find a refrigerator that I liked, was rated by Consumer Reports to be reliable, and would fit in our teensy kitchen, I just could not deal with canceling the order and starting over again.

Fortunately, our old refrigerator kept chugging (sometimes, literally) along, right to the bitter end.

On November 10, I had not heard anything about delivery and I was (I think, justifiably so) concerned.

I pulled up the receipt on my computer and saw there was a number for appliance delivery support.

Perfect!

Then I see you need to call between 8 a.m. and 7 p.m. – EST!!!!   EASTERN Standard Time?  And it is about 3:45 right then.

Fuck me.

I start dialing.

I get connected, and am treated to about 10 minutes of, one after another, advertisement offers – each one requiring me to either hit “1” to be connected to someone to receive this once-in-a-lifetime offer, or “#” to move on (to the next fucking ad – if I hear the words “Congratulations ….!” one more time).  And meanwhile, tick-tock, tick-tock.

I finally get to the end of the ads, and I get a tape telling me that this number is no longer good for appliance delivery support and I should call ….

Fuck me.

I write down the number, but I’m thinking, fool me once …. (and yes, unlike George W I do know how the rest of it goes.)

I call the main number on the receipt for (general) customer support, which is good 23 hours a day.

And it works.

In a way, I’m not happy about it because by calling the number I clearly “should” call, I wasted 10 minutes of my life that I will never get back.  But, at least I’m talking to a human.  And she confirms delivery is tomorrow and they will be calling sometime this evening to give me the (infamous) window of delivery.  I am also told that the delivery people will call me 30 minutes before actual delivery.  Fine, fine, fine.

An hour later, I get the call but the message is breaking up and I cannot hear what my window is and unlike most every other call like this – it does not, and you can’t ask it to, repeat.

Isn’t that handy?

But I know they are coming the next day, and I know that I will have a 30 minute warning.  I figure I will use that 30 minute warning to empty the refrigerator and freezer; hoping to reduce the time perishables are out of the refrigerator/freezer as much as possible.

I have already cleared the top of the refrigerator, taken off the many, many magnets adorning the front, removed my magnetic spice racks from the side, and moved my broiler pan, pizza pans, and cookie sheets from the area between the refrigerator and the cabinets.

November 11 arrives.

Mid-morning, I get the 30 minute warning call.

I swear, 10 minutes later, the phone rings – it’s the delivery men and they are here – but lost.  (This happens a lot because our address is based on where our garage faces, not our front door – don’t even ask, that’s just the way it is, and a good 80% of delivery people get lost, which is why I always share this info when arranging delivery, but for some reason this information is almost never passed on to the people who actually need it.)

Glad that I have a wireless phone – I walk out the front door, around the corner and there (sure as shit) is the delivery truck – I tell the guy to look behind him, he sees me and I tell him just back up and come around the corner.  I watch him back up to the point where he can see which front door I go into.

I frantically empty the refrigerator (the freezer was done).  So much for my 30 minute warning.

The guys come in and switch out the refrigerators, wham, bam thank you ma’am.  They do a great job!

They don’t even comment on the fact that behind my refrigerator there is enough cat fur to build a whole platoon of gray fluffy cats.  While they are removing the old refrigerator, I am sweeping the floor so that the new refrigerator won’t be sitting on a layer of cat fur and dust, and spider webs.

I ask the guys, how long before the refrigerator will be cold.

47 hours.  (No, not 48 hours … 47 hours.)

I literally tell them, “Fuck you.”  (It was a nice fuck you, as fuck yous go, but it was fuck you, nonetheless.)

They admit that you can start using it in 2 hours – just don’t fill it too much because the more stuff you put in the slower it reaches temperature.

Since I, in my fat old lady wisdom, have been using up everything possible in the freezer and refrigerator since I ordered the new refrigerator, this is not a problem.

So that was the adventure of the new refrigerator – long may it run.