There has been a slight dispute at our house. It concerns a microwave. We don’t have one, or didn’t until yesterday. The past three homes we have lived in have all had built-in microwaves as part of the cabinetry. Then we moved into our lovely 1972 rental, and: no microwave.
For ten months we’ve made due. Frankly, I didn’t really miss it. The only thing I missed was no Kettle Corn Light microwave popcorn. But even then, I didn’t miss the mess that occurs when you add a heaping bowl of popcorn to 4 boisterous children. We’ve simply heated things up on the stove or in the oven. Then I bought my man some Lean Cuisines to take to the office. And that’s when he remembered how much radiation we’ve been missing all these months.
For weeks, we wandered down the home appliance aisles comparing cubic feet to prices but I never could bite the bullet and buy one. I could tell you it was my firm desire to cook more “green,” but that would be a fib. It’s the counter space. Precious countertop real estate would have to compromised to accomodate such a monstrosity of an appliance. I guess in 1972 they thought countertops were overrated, because there is barely enough room for the toaster and the block of knives.
“But what about all these piles of papers and general crap you have crowding the counter?” my husband argues.
What he doesn’t understand is that while he has an entire room for a home office, I have the kitchen. The kitchen is my office, the minivan is my locker. Unless he wants our bedoir to become the permission slip/spelling lists/jotted down notes/loose change jar/random craft supplies recepticle, he needs to develop a healthy respect for my piles of “crap” on the counter.
Then one Saturday he comes home with a rather large microwave.
“I got this at the thrift store, honey! Twenty bucks! Isn’t she a beaut?” Long story short: he plugs it in, it shakes, rattles and hums disturbingly, all sales are final. Right now it’s something for the kids to jump off of in the living room.
So then he gets on a microwave mission. A quest. After meditating in the home goods section of Wal-mart yesterday, he makes his selection. He brings it into the house triumphantly. It’s black. Our countertop is white. I’m not happy. That self-same day I lug the device back to the store for a full refund. He even paid extra for a 2 year warranty. So I think to myself, don’t I pay 100 bucks a year already to shop at Costco? And what is my membership if not a lifetime warranty on what I buy there? So, feeling quite smug, I purchased a white microwave from Costco. There. It’s done.
Until we plugged it in last night to find it didn’t work. It’s a sign. My piles refuse to be evicted from their home.