Wednesday, September 28, 2016

Not a Saxophone

Herself speaks.

Years and years and years ago -- before we even moved to this desert land -- we lived in a lovely little townhouse with a tiny Offspring the First and an even tinier Offspring the Second. I loved that little townhouse, and sometimes dream about it, still.

In the living area downstairs, we had a cabinet with the television and the stereo. The stereo had, somewhat inexplicably, come with a microphone, presumably for karaoke. The wee Offspring found the microphone fascinating; we, however, kept it relatively hidden, lest we be subjected to hours of toddler karaoke.

One afternoon, though, we had opened the glass door behind which the stereo sat, and they spotted the microphone. "Look, the saxophone!" one of them exclaimed. "It's not a saxophone, it's a microwave," the other one corrected.

Hee. We still laugh about it, even now.

I thought of the microphone this past weekend, when I discovered that the microwave had suddenly expired: without warning, it stopped heating things. It was a mere 7 years old. Alas, and egads -- how could I warm dinner for the (spoiled) chihuahuas?

Since Beloved Husband was out of town, I took it upon myself to handle this appliance matter. I removed the face plate behind which the defunct machine was ensconced, wrestled it out (it weighed approximately 8,000 pounds) and measured it carefully; went to the home improvement store and identified an appropriate new microwave; wrestled it out of the store, into the car, out of the car, and into the house; installed it (with much sweating and a wee bit of cursing, since it too weighed approximately 8,000 pounds); and reinstalled the face plate.

It is shinier than the old machine, which is distracting. (I thought that perhaps stainless steel would look nice -- meh. Yet, there it is.) Nevertheless, it works. HUZZAH.

In another 7 years when it must be replaced again, I will enlist some help to wrestle it, though. Doing it by myself this once was enough.

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