Browsing through the kitchen section in a thrift store, I found an old microwave/convection combo for $25. I had read about the superiority of convection heat over conventional ovens for baked pastries and wanted to see if the rumors were true.
I started to lift it up, but a male volunteer stopped me and said he would carry it out to my car. I paid the cashier while he walked it out to my Honda Civic and settled it down in the hatchback. Then I drove home, pulled into the garage and promptly forgot about it.
I’m like that most days.
The next morning was Sunday and I awoke with a contented sigh. Why? Why was I...happy? Yes, it was the weekend. Yes, the alarm was off....ooh! The convection oven! I had a new toy to test out scones and muffins and biscuits, oh my.
It was a frisson of convection happiness.
Still in my jammies, I went out to the garage and reached into the car to lift out the appliance.
(Fashion Break)
Bear with me (“bare” with me!) because this part is important: I sleep in a simple shift without undergarments. In other words, the girls are free to roam about, although they tend to stay close to home.
(End Fashion Break)
Next you need to picture the size of the appliance. The box was deeper than it was wide and—being old—was solid metal. No plastic parts on this puppy. I reached into the car (still in my jammies, remember) and since I didn’t want to grab the convection fan at the back, I put my left arm over the top of the box with the door facing to the right, slipped my right arm underneath the box and lifted. Ooof! That sucker was heavy.
Only then was its full weight revealed and I staggered as the box tipped dangerously forward. THAT’S when the heavy metal door swung open and—as I quickly arched my back to gain leverage—it followed Newton’s Law of Universal Gravitation and returned to its lowest point. What goes up must come down.
Only, you see, my right nipple got in the way. Unfortunately, this small detail did nothing to stop the door from slamming shut.
(I apologize to all the women out there who just winced.)
Now this is where you REALLY get to use your imagination. There I stood in the garage in my jammies, clutching a solid block of (fill in the element with the heaviest atomic weight—possibly plutonium?) to my chest with tears running down my cheeks. I was afraid to lean forward and set the microwave down as it might fall out of my arms and take my nipple with it. I couldn’t unlatch the door because both hands were desperately clutching the box to my bosom. I couldn’t just drop the damn thing because it had my nipple and we’d grown up together and I was quite fond of it. Attached you might say, although “unattached” was rapidly becoming a possibility.
I squeaked out a scream to Larry who came running out and stopped short. All men have an inherent fear of the word “impotence” but I must admit that first shock and then impotence flew across his face as he tried to figure out just what the hell was going on.
Larry’s had three back surgeries and isn’t supposed to lift heavy weights but he gamely tried to lift the microwave away when I screamed at him NOT to pull it out of my arms. At that point he hadn’t seen that The Nipple--font of many happy memories for both of us--was still trapped in the door.
Nor could he unlatch the door because my arm had slid across it, blocking access. We ended up with him holding some of the weight off of me as the three of us—man, woman and box of pain—slowly waltzed across the garage until we could set it down on the workbench and set me free.
Still crying from the pain, I started to laugh at the absurdity of the whole situation. Then I was laughing so hard I stopped crying because it was silly and farcical and in the end, I still had two nipples, although one should have AMANA permanently embossed on it.
On the other hand, I’m pretty sure I’m eligible for the Purple Heart from the Le Leche League.
I started to lift it up, but a male volunteer stopped me and said he would carry it out to my car. I paid the cashier while he walked it out to my Honda Civic and settled it down in the hatchback. Then I drove home, pulled into the garage and promptly forgot about it.
I’m like that most days.
The next morning was Sunday and I awoke with a contented sigh. Why? Why was I...happy? Yes, it was the weekend. Yes, the alarm was off....ooh! The convection oven! I had a new toy to test out scones and muffins and biscuits, oh my.
It was a frisson of convection happiness.
Still in my jammies, I went out to the garage and reached into the car to lift out the appliance.
(Fashion Break)
Bear with me (“bare” with me!) because this part is important: I sleep in a simple shift without undergarments. In other words, the girls are free to roam about, although they tend to stay close to home.
(End Fashion Break)
Next you need to picture the size of the appliance. The box was deeper than it was wide and—being old—was solid metal. No plastic parts on this puppy. I reached into the car (still in my jammies, remember) and since I didn’t want to grab the convection fan at the back, I put my left arm over the top of the box with the door facing to the right, slipped my right arm underneath the box and lifted. Ooof! That sucker was heavy.
Only then was its full weight revealed and I staggered as the box tipped dangerously forward. THAT’S when the heavy metal door swung open and—as I quickly arched my back to gain leverage—it followed Newton’s Law of Universal Gravitation and returned to its lowest point. What goes up must come down.
Only, you see, my right nipple got in the way. Unfortunately, this small detail did nothing to stop the door from slamming shut.
(I apologize to all the women out there who just winced.)
Now this is where you REALLY get to use your imagination. There I stood in the garage in my jammies, clutching a solid block of (fill in the element with the heaviest atomic weight—possibly plutonium?) to my chest with tears running down my cheeks. I was afraid to lean forward and set the microwave down as it might fall out of my arms and take my nipple with it. I couldn’t unlatch the door because both hands were desperately clutching the box to my bosom. I couldn’t just drop the damn thing because it had my nipple and we’d grown up together and I was quite fond of it. Attached you might say, although “unattached” was rapidly becoming a possibility.
I squeaked out a scream to Larry who came running out and stopped short. All men have an inherent fear of the word “impotence” but I must admit that first shock and then impotence flew across his face as he tried to figure out just what the hell was going on.
Larry’s had three back surgeries and isn’t supposed to lift heavy weights but he gamely tried to lift the microwave away when I screamed at him NOT to pull it out of my arms. At that point he hadn’t seen that The Nipple--font of many happy memories for both of us--was still trapped in the door.
Nor could he unlatch the door because my arm had slid across it, blocking access. We ended up with him holding some of the weight off of me as the three of us—man, woman and box of pain—slowly waltzed across the garage until we could set it down on the workbench and set me free.
Still crying from the pain, I started to laugh at the absurdity of the whole situation. Then I was laughing so hard I stopped crying because it was silly and farcical and in the end, I still had two nipples, although one should have AMANA permanently embossed on it.
On the other hand, I’m pretty sure I’m eligible for the Purple Heart from the Le Leche League.