There’s something I have been keeping very quiet about for a while, but maybe you are ready for it by now. I hope so. Here goes.
I love watching Lawrence Welk. There. I said it out loud. When I was young(er), I totally thought Lawrence was so far out of it that it was impossible to locate him. Only old folks–the Geritol Generation–could possibly enjoy such junk. Well, here I am, the poster girl for Geritol. I watch Lawrence every week on Saturday night. When I miss him, I am sad. I sometimes sing along, as I seem to know all of the songs. Sometimes I dance along, with one of the cats as my partner. Tonight, they had the guy who plays the organ doing his thing. And I remembered that Mom and Dad bought an organ for me to play when I had a tantrum and said I absolutely would not play the piano but might consider the organ. That danged organ followed me all the way to San Francisco. Unbelievable. Anyway, the reason I am telling you this is because of the actual topic of this post: the micro fridge.
Recently, in a conversation with someone close to me, I discovered that I am not the only one who does a WTF when I find that I have put my coffee in the fridge to heat up. Yes. I can tell you that the fridge does not heat coffee as well as the microwave does. Nor does the microwave do a good job of keeping ice cream cold. These little mishaps have been happening for a while now, and I did not want to mention it for fear they would put me in a nice home with bars to keep me safe. But it turns out that lots of people have had these experiences with cold coffee and warm ice cream. Brain freeze or something (didn’t I write about brain freeze a while back?), resulting in a loud WTF, according to medical experts.
Of course you have long since realized the connection between my love affair with Lawrence and the micro fridge problem. I do think it is way too bad that they don’t sell Geritol anymore, don’t you? What is one to do about these senior moments? The solution may be to remove myself from any machine that requires electricity to operate (except the beloved TV that brings Lawrence to me each week). Now if only I could find those pedals and the second keyboard on my piano, life might come close to perfect. WTF?