Well, it finally happened, my microwave died. And it’s a very sad thing too, I’ve had it for around 30 years now. It was quite literally my first kitchen appliance, something my mom bought me for my birthday or Christmas when I lived in a shitty little second story one bedroom apartment on 11th street in Eugene next to the Circle K. At the time I wasn’t sure if I really needed one given that my diet consisted of mostly noodles and peanut butter sandwiches, but alas, it was nice to find I could easily reheat left overs as, with my limited income, everything, and I mean everything, got eaten in that house (except the kitten, of course). That’s two thirds of my life with one microwave. I told my wife I wasn’t going to throw it out, just find a place for it, maybe even the garage. “It’ll be a good place to put things,” I indicated, being careful not to mention that she’s already taken over half the garage with years of senseless hoarding that in no way shape or form come close to one’s deep emotional bond to a, say, faithful, trusty, thirty year old microwave.
Cheers,
…a…