The "Don't Shop at Best Buy" Cocktail

 

As you read in yesterday’s blog post, another Saturday vanished into the void of Best Buy’s mythical delivery window. I decided the only reasonable response was to invent a signature drink. Something that starts with bright, fruity hope – the kind you feel when the tracking says “on time” – and finishes with a bracing slap of reality, courtesy of bitters.

 Ladies and gentlemen, unlike Best Buy, I keep my promises, and give you The “Don’t Shop at Best Buy” Cocktail. It looks gorgeous, it tastes optimistic for about three seconds, and then the bitters remind you why your refrigerator is still dented and your weekend is gone. Consider this my public service announcement in liquid form.

The “Don't Shop at Best Buy” Cocktail 

Makes one GENEROUS serving (because you’re going to need it)

1½ oz. vodka (for the clear, innocent hope you had when you placed the order)

1 oz. pineapple juice (bright, tropical promise of smooth sailing)

¾ oz. fresh orange juice (sunny optimism)

½ oz. grenadine (that vivid red pop of false confidence)

½ oz. fresh lime juice (a little necessary sharpness)

3–4 dashes Angostura bitters (the bitter truth that arrives too late)

½ oz. blue curaçao (because why not make it unnecessarily pretty and chaotic?)

Club soda to top

Garnish: orange slice, maraschino cherry, and a tiny twist of lemon peel (looking fabulous while everything falls apart)

 Fill a highball glass with ice.

Pour in the vodka, pineapple juice, orange juice, lime juice, and grenadine. Stir gently.

 Add the blue curaçao—it will create a beautiful turquoise-to-red ombre effect that screams “this is going to be great!”

 Top with a splash of club soda for a little fizz of lingering delusion.

 Now the important part: add 3–4 solid dashes of Angostura bitters right on top. Do not stir them in. Let them sit there like the bad news that shows up at 4:37 PM when the window is closing.

Garnish extravagantly with the orange slice speared with a cherry, and drop the lemon twist on top like a tiny sarcastic bow.

 Serve with the instruction: “First it looks perfect. Then you taste the bitters.”

 Sip it while you wait for your next phantom delivery. Or just sip it because you already know better.

Tasting notes:

The initial sip is sweet, fruity, summery, and full of promise—like the tracking update that says “on time.” Then the bitters hit, dry and aromatic, reminding you that hope is a cruel mistress and your refrigerator is still dented.

Sip slowly. Reflect on your choices. Maybe order takeout instead of appliances next time.

Cheers to horrible warnings.

Please share, Pin, Tweet, etc.

* * * * BREAKING * * * *
Never let it be said that people aren’t reading our blogs. Another refrigerator is scheduled to be delivered this Friday. I’ll keep you posted. 

 

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Refrigerator Roulette: The Third Strike – Best Buy's Delivery Debacle Continues

More than once I've quoted Catherine Aird’s line from her Inspector Sloan novels on this blog: “If you can’t be a good example, then you’ll have to serve as a horrible warning.” Consider me your walking, talking (and increasingly exasperated) horrible warning today. Do not—repeat, DO NOT—ever shop for major appliances at Best Buy.

 

As chronicled in my two previous posts (links here and here), my refrigerator saga has become the stuff of personal legend. The latest chapter unfolded on Saturday, March 14, when the third (and fingers-crossed final) delivery was scheduled to swap out the dented disaster they dropped off initially. 

 

The delivery window? Classic 1 PM to 5 PM, which, as I've learned the hard way, is code for “anytime up to 6 PM, if you're lucky.” You clear your schedule, hover near the door like a nervous host, and pray nothing derails your day. Lunch? Dinner? Forget it. The moment you sit down with a sandwich, the doorbell will ring and you'll spend the next two hours watching your food turn into a sad, room-temperature science experiment.

 

 This time I got clever—or so I thought. I emptied the freezer contents into my ancient 1979 Kenmore in the laundry room, and only partially emptied the refrigerator contents, moving them to the fridge downstairs (my knees are still complaining about the multiple trips), but left the fridge section mostly intact. Everything went into the crispers and door bins for quick removal. When the crew arrived, I'd just pop out the bins and drawers, transfer them to the counter, and slide them right back into the new one. Brilliant efficiency, right? 

They even gave me a tracking link and a name: Marlon, ETA 2:20 PM. Perfect. I could reclaim my afternoon. Then the updates started rolling in: 2:35… 3:00… 3:15… By 3:28 the site cheerfully declared “Delivery Completed.” Except it wasn't. My dented fridge was still mocking me from the kitchen, and the new one was nowhere in sight. 

I called customer service. They transferred me to the delivery company. The rep assured me it was “still in transit” and would arrive within the 1–5 PM window. Sure. 

At 4:37 PM my Ring doorbell lit up. Heart racing, I sprinted (as much as one can sprint) to the door and flung it open—only to greet an Amazon driver with a small package. No fridge. The window closed. 

At 5:27 PM Ring was at it again, as was I, filled with hope, only to find a neighbor on my doorstep who handed me a piece of misdelivered mail.

I vented on Twitter (still refusing to call it X), tagging Best Buy with a concise summary of the fiasco. They responded almost instantly—apologies galore, promises to investigate. An hour and a half later: confirmation that, yep, it wasn't happening today. Entire Saturday wasted. Still staring at the dented fridge. No new delivery date in sight. Even Best Buy seems baffled at this point. 

As a consequence of all of this, I have invented the “Don't Shop at Best Buy Cocktail.” Heavy on the bitters, naturally. Maybe a splash of regret and a twist of shattered expectations. Come back tomorrow for the recipe.

 Cheers to lessons learned the hard way. 

Please share far and wide. 

Nothing Is Ever Simple (Featuring a Refrigerator and My — GASP! — Underwear)

Location of dents indicated by "x."

 

As with most things in this house, the refrigerator delivery came with both good news and bad news—because why would it ever be just one or the other?

 The good news: the new refrigerator arrived. It is a KitchenAid 26.2 cubic foot, multi-door French door refrigerator with a platinum interior and stainless steel exterior, as I mentioned here. It even has a fingerprint free exterior (something I wasn’t aware of when I bought it), as well as offering up two different kinds of ice – crushed and cubed – something else I wasn’t aware of when I bought it, so I was pretty pleased. In other words, it is beautiful. The delivery crew removed both the front door and the storm door to get it inside, hauled the old refrigerator out without incident, and slid the new one neatly into place. It fits perfectly, which already felt like a small miracle.

 The bad news: everything else.

 First, I was informed that they would not be connecting the water line unless I paid extra. This was surprising, given that my receipt said otherwise, but I decided to put that argument on hold for another day. I have learned to pace myself.

Second...the dents. Over the phone customer service offered money off, but I declined. When I pay for showroom perfection, I don’t want something that looks slightly used. It would be like hiring a hitman and being satisfied with a simple bruise. I am not keeping a visibly dented refrigerator that I plan to look at every day for the foreseeable future. So yes, technically I now have a refrigerator—but practically speaking, I do not, because once the return is scheduled and a new one is on its way, it would be pointless to fill it up with groceries, only to take them all out again.

Still, it’s something.

But wait, there’s more.

 While disconnecting the water line from the old refrigerator, one of the delivery men warned me that a little water might leak onto the floor and asked if I could get him a towel. No problem, I said confidently, heading for the laundry room. I opened the dryer, fully expecting a warm, fluffy load of towels—only to discover that I had outsmarted myself earlier in the day by actually folding the laundry and putting it away. All of it.

 Thinking quickly, I opened the washer, full of yet-to-be-laundered clothes and such, grabbed a towel, and turned back to hand it to him. And that’s when momentum, physics, and fate intervened. Along with the towel, I unintentionally flung a pair of my underwear directly at the poor man.

 The mortification was immediate and complete.

 To his credit, he reacted with admirable professionalism, pretending that nothing unusual had occurred, while I stood there silently questioning every decision I’ve ever made. Somewhere between the refrigerator, the dents, and airborne underwear, I accepted what I probably should have known all along: nothing in this house happens without incident.

 (Those of you who know me personally will recall the time I inadvertently flashed my underwear, in a similar fashion, to the UPS man. That time a dryer was also involved, but the underwear was stuck to the robe that I had quickly pulled on in order to answer the door, rather than flung into his face.)

At least the refrigerator is beautiful. Even if it’s only visiting.