Love affair with my refrigerator

Those of you who've looked at the photos of our apartment know that we have a nice place. It's pretty new, there's carpet, there are plenty of windows and light, bathrooms are big enough, etc. You will also recall that the kitchen, though it has adequate counter and cupboard space, does lack space in other places: the fridge.

Our fridge is so small that even Emmanuel Lewis couldn't get a decent night's sleep in it. Actually, our fridge is so small that you could barely fit a chihuahua with a bag of Fritos inside. A small fridge is supposed to mean that you shop more frequently, which means that you eat more fresh food. Or, a small fridge could just be one fat-ass headache, when it fails to keep your shopped-for-this-morning fresh food fresh.

Example A: one week after living here, I go to get some milk to make some hot chocolate. When I begin to pour the milk from the jug, it comes out in chunks--white, globular, vile milk-chunks. I turn the temperature higher so things will stay colder and the milk won't curdle. Now, there is a glacier building up inside the freezer.

Example B: Last night, Andrew turns the temperature down some so the glacier will begin to digest itself. This morning, I suffer the consequences of Andrew's very poor decision. I go to pour the milk on a lovely, crunchy bowl of Tesco Value Cornflakes-- and-- again-- the friggin' milk chunks. I'm pissed because not only do I have to toss out what would've been a perfectly good bowl of cornflakes, I also have to eat a soft boiled egg without any toast because we don't have any bread. I resolve to kill the glacier this weekend.

I could put the milk on the window ledge outside my apartment and it'd stay at a more consistent temperature than it does in my pixie box-fridge.

Isn't technology supposed to WORK? Isn't technology supposed to HELP US? Someone in the crowd: Can I get a "Hell, yeah?"