published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat Weekend Edition, January 28th, 2011
I would never have believed that my appliances could be of such interest, but this may say more about the lack of salacious activity in Fauquier County than it does about my microwave. Here’s one indicator of the activity-deprivation: Last week, I used the puerile term “booger” and got a chiding email. While such verbiage might pass the editor’s desk, it doesn’t mean it will be acceptable to readers.
When we left off, it was Thanksgiving, and the 5, 7, and Auto/Defrost buttons on my microwave had put themselves into early retirement.
We have the home warranty that covers built-in microwaves. They declared the microwave unworthy of repair and sent us a check for the replacement cost of the microwave (but not for removing the old one, or installing the new one, or the $50 deductible that delivered the damning verdict.) Sometime over the summer, that check got consumed in our normal expenses.
Anyway, I reasoned, it wasn’t as if the microwave was completely unusable. Don’t say I’m inflexible. If you take away my odd numbers, I know how to get even. If you take away my auto defrost button, I won’t have a meltdown. After all, I had my handy and loyal “Quick Defrost” button that could be pressed repeatedly. It had not abandoned me.
We are, despite the accusations of older generations, not completely spoiled. We are used to suffering in our own sort of way, even though their cataracts don’t allow them to see that in us. For example, I once forgot to take my travel coffee mug to school, and I actually had to drink coffee from a gigantic Styrofoam cup! Yes, it was a plain cup and didn’t even have a cover, so by the time I got down to drinking the coffee, it had reached that reprehensible state of tepidity.
And who hasn’t had to put up with zones where their cell phone reception is as dead as your social life? We are not merely acquainted with suffering; sometimes we are best friends with it. Just put me into the Great Depression and you’ll see what kind of dandelion soup I can whip up. Don’t accuse me of being an alien to suffering. I’ll put a booger on you.
The penultimate occasion to the microwave’s death was when the Clear/Off button died. Without the Clear/Off, we were gonners. Now, if we meant to heat something for 34 seconds (not 35, of course), but we accidentally pressed the three-minute express button, we could not simply press “Clear/Off” and start again.
Now, we had to be vigilant and quickly open the microwave door as soon as the requisite time elapsed. In this new, “unclear” way of microwave life, it was safer to use the main oven’s timer to remind us when to yank open the microwave. The remaining time, which would be something like “2:25” was left on the microwave, so the next time we wanted to heat something, we just shut the door and pressed, “Start.” If you needed more time, when the 2:25 were expended, we could (finally) start anew.
Over Thanksgiving, at the height of our microwave misadventures, my incredibly sweet sister-in-law from Alaska accidentally punched in 90:00 into the microwave. Yes, ninety minutes of micro-waving pleasure, and no way to clear it. We laughed and challenged each other to use up all of this “banked” time. There was the occasional overflow of milk when we forgot to set the other timer, but no one cried over it. Instead, we rejoiced at the reduction in the sentenced time.
It felt like we were on a shopping spree in “Wheel of Fortune” and had ninety minutes to spend. “For one minute and thirty seconds, I’d like to heat up this mug of milk…for another two minutes, I’ll warm up this plate of leftover brown rice and chicken curry.” It was hard to be a big spender in the microwave time world. And also, it took a lot of time.
We cheered as if we had finished a marathon when we were ushered out of the nineties.
One fiercely windy morning a month later, our power failed, effectively resetting the microwave. It returned with a vengeance. It usurped power and demanded that we press “Clock” to set the time. Of course, the Clock button was now nonfunctional, rendering the entire beast unusable. We had no way to clear it. So we finally decided to issue the death certificate.
At Christmas, a quick trip to Tolson’s Appliance, which has been in business longer than any of us, squelched our microwave misery. It’s been a great way to start the New Year.
I would never have believed that my appliances could be of such interest, but this may say more about the lack of salacious activity in Fauquier County than it does about my microwave. Here’s one indicator of the activity-deprivation: Last week, I used the puerile term “booger” and got a chiding email. While such verbiage might pass the editor’s desk, it doesn’t mean it will be acceptable to readers.
When we left off, it was Thanksgiving, and the 5, 7, and Auto/Defrost buttons on my microwave had put themselves into early retirement.
We have the home warranty that covers built-in microwaves. They declared the microwave unworthy of repair and sent us a check for the replacement cost of the microwave (but not for removing the old one, or installing the new one, or the $50 deductible that delivered the damning verdict.) Sometime over the summer, that check got consumed in our normal expenses.
Anyway, I reasoned, it wasn’t as if the microwave was completely unusable. Don’t say I’m inflexible. If you take away my odd numbers, I know how to get even. If you take away my auto defrost button, I won’t have a meltdown. After all, I had my handy and loyal “Quick Defrost” button that could be pressed repeatedly. It had not abandoned me.
We are, despite the accusations of older generations, not completely spoiled. We are used to suffering in our own sort of way, even though their cataracts don’t allow them to see that in us. For example, I once forgot to take my travel coffee mug to school, and I actually had to drink coffee from a gigantic Styrofoam cup! Yes, it was a plain cup and didn’t even have a cover, so by the time I got down to drinking the coffee, it had reached that reprehensible state of tepidity.
And who hasn’t had to put up with zones where their cell phone reception is as dead as your social life? We are not merely acquainted with suffering; sometimes we are best friends with it. Just put me into the Great Depression and you’ll see what kind of dandelion soup I can whip up. Don’t accuse me of being an alien to suffering. I’ll put a booger on you.
The penultimate occasion to the microwave’s death was when the Clear/Off button died. Without the Clear/Off, we were gonners. Now, if we meant to heat something for 34 seconds (not 35, of course), but we accidentally pressed the three-minute express button, we could not simply press “Clear/Off” and start again.
Now, we had to be vigilant and quickly open the microwave door as soon as the requisite time elapsed. In this new, “unclear” way of microwave life, it was safer to use the main oven’s timer to remind us when to yank open the microwave. The remaining time, which would be something like “2:25” was left on the microwave, so the next time we wanted to heat something, we just shut the door and pressed, “Start.” If you needed more time, when the 2:25 were expended, we could (finally) start anew.
Over Thanksgiving, at the height of our microwave misadventures, my incredibly sweet sister-in-law from Alaska accidentally punched in 90:00 into the microwave. Yes, ninety minutes of micro-waving pleasure, and no way to clear it. We laughed and challenged each other to use up all of this “banked” time. There was the occasional overflow of milk when we forgot to set the other timer, but no one cried over it. Instead, we rejoiced at the reduction in the sentenced time.
It felt like we were on a shopping spree in “Wheel of Fortune” and had ninety minutes to spend. “For one minute and thirty seconds, I’d like to heat up this mug of milk…for another two minutes, I’ll warm up this plate of leftover brown rice and chicken curry.” It was hard to be a big spender in the microwave time world. And also, it took a lot of time.
We cheered as if we had finished a marathon when we were ushered out of the nineties.
One fiercely windy morning a month later, our power failed, effectively resetting the microwave. It returned with a vengeance. It usurped power and demanded that we press “Clock” to set the time. Of course, the Clock button was now nonfunctional, rendering the entire beast unusable. We had no way to clear it. So we finally decided to issue the death certificate.
At Christmas, a quick trip to Tolson’s Appliance, which has been in business longer than any of us, squelched our microwave misery. It’s been a great way to start the New Year.
I had such a good time reading this! It's nice to know I'm not the only one with rebelling appliances. Our microwave died the day before Christmas, leaving us no choice but to reheat and cook a few Christmas dinner items over sterno, using the camp stove and camp fire pot. Now, that's a Christmas we'll remember!
ReplyDeleteThanks, Amy. It's always how we look at things, isn't it? I'll bet your children were thrilled with the campfire stoves in the kitchen. Take care - Vineeta
ReplyDeleteit's well documented as the innate hostility of inanimate objects - yes they're out to get you :)
ReplyDelete