I am just a microwave. . .

November 17, 2010


Home again, home again jiggety jig. . .

Okay, so I'm not doing any jigs.

I'm not doing much of anything, really.

Not even sleeping.

Which is starting to cause problems.

Irritability.

Forgetfulness.

Lack of co-ordination. . .

I'm possess these qualities 99.99% of the time.

Being sick just makes them more exciting.




The one thing that makes the life of a sick person more bearable, more manageable, more livable, is the microwave.

One minute and the leftover spaghetti from the night before becomes your healthy, warm, mouthwatering lunch.

Lukewarm tea is revived to its full restorative powers.

Soup is hot in your hands within seconds.

No chopping, cutting, hauling out of pots and pans, scraping of burnt bits of the bottom of the pot that was on a too hot burner because you're son is so hungry he can't wait.

But, sadly, not for me.

Our microwave, the stainless steel wonder of quick, easy meals and snacks, which had only been gracing the corner of our counter since April, kicked the bucket.

Bit the biscuit.

Cashed in its chips.

. . .when it was called upon, again, to heat hotdogs for my famished children.

Oddly, no one thought to share this information with me.

So, Monday, after spending the morning marking those infernal intro papers, I stopped for a lunch break.

Left over haddock, no sauce, no nothing, and stir fry veggies.

Plate it, stick it in the microwave for a minute and start washing dishes.

The annoying beep signals lunch is ready.  I open the microwave door and put my hand on the plate.

Anticipating the always hot plate.

Only to be greeted with a cold plate.

Because the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over anticipating a different result, I tried again.

Same result.

It took one more time for it to sink through my consciousness that the microwave wasn't working.

I actually had to stop and think for a minute about how the hell I was supposed to heat up my lunch.

That is how accustomed I am to having my microwave at the ready.

I mentioned this to Stephen, who checked and sure enough, the microwave wasn't working.

When I brought up to the kids that the microwave was out of commission, their response?

"Yeah. We know. We tried to make hotdogs last night and it didn't work."

Well, thanks for telling me.

Kids.

Perhaps they thought they could go outside and pick another one off the microwave tree in our backyard.




So, Stephen packed up the busted microwave and took it to Sears for a refund or replacement.

Normally I tag along on these little junkets because if Stephen meets any resistance, he tends to fluster, preventing him from obtaining the desired result.

Case in point: a Canadian Tire weedwacker.

Our backyard was looking like an Amazonian rain forest, and a mere lawnmower wasn't able to tame it on its own.

We had been tossing around the idea of purchasing a weedwacker for a while, and thought that Canadian Tire would be a good place to procure one.

That was our first mistake.

Bought it, brought it home, I put on my workboots, shorts, gloves, put my hair back, and I was ready to rock and roll with the weedwacker. 

Gas it up.

Pull the cord.

Nothing. 

Nada.

Try again. . .that whole definition of insanity thing rearing its ugly head. 

After 20 minutes, we were thoroughly pissed off, and knew that another trip to Canadian Tire was in our very near future. 

That evening, Stephen drops me at the hospital for my nightly visit with my mother.

And he heads to CT to deal with the wonky weedwacker. 

When he returns two hours later, the weedwacker is in the backseat of the car.

And we went back to CT.

They refused to refund our money.

Stephen looked at them and said the following fateful words:

"Wait until my wife gets here."

I walk to the counter, weedwacker in hand.

The cashier looks at me and the weedwacker and then my husband.

She knew what was coming.

I asked her how come she refused to refund the money to my husband, and because she wouldn't do a simple and expected procedure for a ineffective product, I had to leave the hospital, where my mother was convalescing from hip surgery, to come here and deal with a weedwacker refund that shouldn't be a problem because it didn't work, not once, and I want my money refunded without any problems, issues or concerns and if she couldn't do this could she please find someone who could?

We got our money back.

So, I was justified in my concern that Stephen was going to encounter some difficulty returning the microwave.

I envisoned him coming home, microwave in tow, telling me that I was going to have to haul my sick and sorry, zebra flanneled pj'd butt, complete with slippers, wool socks and torn t-shirt to the appliance counter at Sears and demand a refund or a replacement.

Imagine my relief when he came home and said everything was fine.

They took the microwave back and even gave us a replacement.

But, of course, because it is our microwave, and there is no replacement because this was a discontinued model, we have to wait until next Tuesday for a new microwave to be shipped in from another city.

A week with no microwave.

I am actually going to have to plan what's for dinner because I won't be able to just pop something in the microwave to thaw out.

The injustice of it all!

Sick.

No microwave.

I'm afraid to even contemplate what could be next.

Because there is ALWAYS a next.


Title Lyric: The Microwave Song