The case of the flaming microwave

According to my brother (aka Brother the Eldest), there’s a curse that says, “May you live in interesting times.” I think today qualifies.

I haven’t got the tree up yet. But at least La Casa de Tonteria isn’t a pile of charcoal. 

I’d been up a few hours, long enough to be getting ready for a coffee meeting with Mrs. E=$-squared. She’s an entrepreneur, a member of multiple charitable organizations, and in her spare time she drinks coffee with friends. At a little after eight, she called to reschedule.

So I decided to make myself coffee. And lost track of time. Time flies when you’re agonizing over a scene in your novel. So there I was, ready for java and finding cold blackness in the pot.

Microwave to the rescue!

I assure you, dear reader, that I didn’t put anything metal in it. And I didn’t set the time too long or the heat too high. It was a 500-watt model with a 60-minute dial, so how is that even possible?

But there it was – a strange burning smell and a popping noise. I unplugged the darn thing and put it outside until it cooled off – and then it went to the Deadly Appliances Ward – which I wheel to the street once a week.

Several of my friends will say it had a fit because I brought a new refrigerator into the house – some jokingly and some superstitiously.  All I know is that since I don’t use a microwave on a weekly basis, I’m in no hurry to replace the Box of Electronic Wrath.

 

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