Anyway. This morning I woke up and I thought my refrigerator had died. So I called my landlord, who came over, which is when we discovered that I merely needed to defrost it. Cue scenes of great embarrassment and patheticness. Patheticity. I'm thirtysomething years old and before today I had never learned how to defrost a fridge. I mean, sure, I chipped away at the ice now and then. And of course I knew that there was this formal process called "defrosting." But I hadn't put two and two together and figured out a functional response to my fridge's icy woes, even though I've lived on my own for about fourteen years.
Time to break out the whiskey.
Whiskey and pancakes.
