Tag Archives: appliances

I’ll Take One Cardboard Box…er, Microwave Oven, Please

What happened to the good old days — days that existed before I did — where everyday household appliances lasted longer than Betty White?

I know this to be true because my mother-in-law gave us her old Electrolux when we first got married. You know the kind. It had a turquoise blue canister that you dragged around behind you. The only reason we don’t have it anymore is because we were tired of dragging it behind us.

But that baby sucked. And good.

About six years ago, we renovated our kitchen. Gutted it to the studs. It was past due by about two decades. The flooring was this weird blue or gray or Blay-something linoleum with a mystery burn mark from 1989.

The cabinets were resurfaced so many times, veneer was being held together by Scotch tape. Want to know how many pieces of Scotch tape? I can’t tell you because I can’t count that high.

The ceilings were made of popcorn. Not the kind you eat. The kind that is ugly. The “kernels” of the ceiling were unclean-able. But this post isn’t about my ugly unclean-able popcorn ceilings.

Or the cabinets.

Or the linoleum.

Which were all replaced anyway in The Great Kitchen Makeover.

With our new kitchen, came all new appliances. A fridge, dishwasher, oven, stove top, and microwave. Beautiful, gleaming, stainless steel, gorgeous appliances.

Word to your mother: Stainless steel is a pain in the literal ass. I love it, and there really is nothing else I like better. But dang, don’t touch it or you’ll be sorry.

The microwave started to go last fall. Or winter. I don’t remember the exact timing. What I CAN tell you is it was one month past the five year extended warranty we purchased with the, umm, purchase.

Want to know what DH was told when he called? “Well, sir. This is why you should have bought the 10-year warranty.”

This guy was the start of our troubles -- not the towel, the towel is great -- the microwave.

This guy was the start of our troubles. Not the towel. The towel, which was a gift from a friend of mine, is awesome and if I knew you were coming I would have ironed it. So, no. Not the towel. The trouble I speak of is this here microwave.

Yes, he said that. He basically implied, in so many words, that this happens. The lifespan of an appliance is five years. Five. Cinco. Fem. Five.

You know what lives longer than this microwave? A fire ant.

That’s embarrassing.

He then proceeded to inform us that we were basically shit out of luck. You know, in so many words.

Unfortunately, this man doesn’t know my DH who does not take “no” for an answer (legally, of course). After many phone calls, going into the store that shall remain nameless countless times, emails and more phone calls, it finally got fixed. Albeit, six months later.

Or maybe it was longer. When you are in microwave-less hell, time marches on like waiting for a sloth to cross a six lane highway.

I mean we had to pay for it. You know, because our five year warranty expired. But for unexplainable reasons, we had to just about sell our first born to get someone out here to repair it.

That is just as big of a mystery as the burn hole in our 1989 linoleum.

It wasn’t easy either because the microwave is set into the wall. But I don’t need to explain the specifics because I don’t really care. It’s fixed. Although I will add that every time we get some kind of electrical storm, we have to turn off the power that runs to it so it doesn’t get fried.

It’s great fun running into the basement to pull the fuse when we hear thunder in the distance. Remember that old trick we used to do when we were kids? Counting between thunderclaps to see how far away a storm was (one one thousand, two one thousand…)? It’s not so fun when your life –I mean, microwave — is on the line.

We spent a lot of money on these appliances. We could have paid for a trip around the world for one. Ok, so that’s an exaggeration, but we definitely could have gone to Disney World. Twice.

Next to go? The dishwasher. My treasured dishwasher. The dishwasher I cannot live without. I do not do dishes. Even emptying the dishwasher is a chore. I cried for a whole month when The Kid left for college. Not necessarily because I missed her (I did), but because that was her thing.

Not by choice, but because I made her.

I’m an awful mother who hates manual labor and all kids should have to pay their dues anyway, you know?

But I’d take emptying the dishwasher over washing dishes any day. I sometimes wonder if, in a previous life, I was horribly mauled by a wild boar while leaning over a river washing dishes.

Anyway, I think the dishwasher must have felt the same way about washing dishes as I did. It would run. It would SOUND like it was doing something. But it wasn’t, sad to say.

Note: only buy a dishwasher that loves — no, LIVES — for washing dishes. One word: Research.

The next thing to act up was the lower left burner on the stove top. We can turn it on, but can’t turn it off. Well, we can with a swift smack of your hand in the middle of it by someone who has enough power to knock some sense into it, but that requires third degree burns and a high pain threshold.

I really liked that burner too. It’s the kind that you can connect to the back burner to make it one long burner. Perfect for those big griddles to make pancakes and such.

Next? Our oven. Kind of. It hasn’t actually died. It has just slowed down. In it’s heyday of 2013 it would heat up faster than a rocket being shot up into orbit. Now it takes forever. I can probably build my own fire in the backyard, cook up a gourmet meal for ten, wash my dishes in the river, and it would still be warming up.

I’m afraid to say this out loud, but the fridge is the only guy standing. It’s still going strong. Until tomorrow. Because I’m superstitious and that’s just what happens. (Knocks on wood)

So, what do you think? Is this the biggest conspiracy since the whole “Elvis is still alive” thing? Maybe. I mean, I’m pretty sure I saw him in Shop Rite last week.

 

We Interrupt Your Life For An Important Commercial Announcement

handprint

My cute little niece’s handprint. And some stubborn streaks.

When did my life turn into one big commercial?  From the moment The Kid was born, conversations range anywhere from what diapers do you trust most to what college does your child want to apply to.  I used to laugh at those commercials where women are having coffee and talking about bladder control all the while wondering who actually does that?  Unfortunately, I literally could be the star in that commercial.

Today, I am trying to get some housework done.  I have close to 7 stainless steel items in my kitchen that need cleaning.  SEVEN.  Because when we were redoing our kitchen, I HAD to have the “in” thing.  Which is weird for me because I don’t really care that much about that stuff.  My master bath still has wallpaper from 1979.  And I actually own and wear a jacket my mother bought me before I got married 21 years ago.  Oh, how I love that jacket.  But I digress.

I haven’t cleaned my appliances in a couple of weeks because I dread it.  Ok, maybe it’s been more than a couple of weeks.  Ok, so it’s been exactly 7.35 weeks because my cute little niece’s handprint is still on my fridge from their September 7th visit.  Yes.  It has been a while.  But come on.  I think I’d rather be forced to watch an “Overhaulin” Marathon on the Speed Channel for a week.  Ok, that’s not entirely true because I could really go for a good eye gouging before that happens.  But cleaning stainless steel really, really sucks.

Anyone who has stainless steel in their home, knows what a pain in the f@#*ing ass it is.  I do love the way it looks (minus the streaks).  So I’m not quite at the point where I am having buyer’s remorse.  I think I’ll wait a couple of years for that to kick in so DH doesn’t smother me in my sleep with the plastic wrapping our toaster oven came in.  So, back to my commercial.  Here is a text exchange between a friend and me earlier today:

Me:  What do u use to clean ur stainless steel?

K:  Perfect Stainless

Me: Does it work? Cuz everything I try leaves freaking streaks.

K:  Yeah.  Until my kids get home.

Me: how I long for the days of white appliances

Really?  What happened to our conversations geared around going out dancing, grabbing a beer or shopping? (ok, so I never actually called a girlfriend to go for a beer because I can’t drink it anymore after this specific episode in high school.  And I would have said wine, but that sounds a bit too Buffy, don’t you think?)

So, what am I doing now?  Writing this blog.  In my kitchen.  And looking at my cute little niece’s handprint on my fridge.  Not getting a damn thing done.  But the streaks are so bad.  Oh well, there’s always tomorrow.  And my cute little niece’s handprint is on my fridge.  How can I erase that?