Panorama of San Bernardino

Monday, April 2, 2012

It's just a microwave

My microwave is keeping me up.  It broke today.  It seems like everything is breaking.  Our washer broke recently and then the television downstairs (both for the second time).  We haven't fixed the television yet.  We didn't have a choice with the washer and decided to just replace it.

My ten year old Mercedes is in desperate need of repair.  I can't go over sixty on the freeway without the steering wheel shaking.

And now this.  That piece of shit microwave.

The more stuff you have, the more stuff that can break.  And, the nicer your stuff, the more expensive it is to fix.  As my husband said before he went to bed, "that's a thousand dollar microwave." 

Should any microwave cost a thousand dollars?  Maybe my husband's exaggerating.  Maybe not.  It's a pretty nice microwave.  It's built into the cabinet and fancy with all the bells and whistles.

I think back to my first microwave.  I bought it at a garage sale for ten bucks.  On second thought, maybe someone gave it to me for free.  I am speculating here, but it doesn't really matter because the point is, a microwave breaking should not be a calamity.

Except it seems like one right now. 

It's late, I have to work tomorrow and I need to wake up early so I can work out at six a.m. and all I can think of is the microwave.  We need to fix it because we may be moving soon with my mother-in-law to her house in Hesperia and renting out this huge monstrosity we call a house.  Who needs 3700 square feet?  Certainly not I said the cat. 

My husband and I were happy in five hundred square feet when we lived in UCSF's dental school housing on the hill with Sutro Tower.  I could barely fit into the bathroom, but it was enough.   Just barely enough, but enough.  And we popped our popcorn in a small white microwave we bought at Walgreen's.

Fuck, I can't get that damn microwave out of my head.  It just stoppped.  No power.  We tried the breaker, but that wasn't the problem.  I was watching my favorite show "Smash" and I went downstairs to make some popcorn and tried to turn the microwave on.  Nothing.  The microwave died without a cause.

You take a microwave for granted until you don't have one. 

I really want some microwave popcorn.  Actually, what really sounds good is the old fashioned kind of popcorn you make in a big pot with kernels and oil.  The kind my dad used to make when I was little.

My dad would pop the popcorn and throw it into a Stater Bros. brown paper bag.  He would melt margerine on the stovetop and pour it on top and grab the Morton's and shake it all over. 

"Watch this girls," he would say as he shook the bag.  Me and my sisters would fight with one another to grab a handful of the delicious, buttery mess.  It was the perfect combination of salty and sweet.

Maybe that's what I miss.  The simple happiness of popcorn from a brown paper bag.  Nothing fancy, kind of like my dad.  Simple, but sweet.

Unlike my fucking microwave.

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