october 21 I break down in the middle and lose my thread It's sick, I know [insert phrase here: "Particularly in light of what's recently gone on"], but we've lost another loved one, and I'm sad.
The microwave died.
Okay, shut up.
Apparently, this only makes me and mom sad. But that's because we're sick and twisted and also because we had no ordinary microwave. It was over 20 years old. This is the best representation I could find on the web (see right); they just don't seem to have taken many pictures of a big honkin' Litton microwave originally manufactured in the late 1970s. But this is pretty close. (Apparently it was so long ago they didn't even have the skill of photograhy, just wood cuts.) But I digress.
I shall try to weave you into the web of my and my mom's despair.
Dad won the microwave, according to Mom, for doing something like selling a lot of prescriptions (as a pharmacist, that just meant he did his job well; he wasn't a dope pusher or anything). Back in the day the thing probably cost $600, says mom, and there was no way we could have afforded it. All I remember is one day there was much cautious anticipation and interest in this very large boxy object, covered in faux wood grain and a button on the top you had to practically lean on before it would insert and open the door. Inside was like the innards of the Andromeda Strain laboratories -- pale white, no spinny lazy susan tray (that was a technological advance far down the road in 1979 or thereabouts). The walls contained small sections of punched out holes. All we knew was there was radiation in there somewhere, and I was just on the cusp of my whole nuclear horror apocalypse repulsion/fascination, so it wasn't like we stuck our heads inside. And it was clean. For the next 20-odd years, we had no permanent stains on that thing, more a testament to Mom's fanaticism and some 409 than anything Litton ever invented.
Well, there it was, on our kitchen counter in Rockville, about as heavy as a decent-sized TV and close to being the same size. You could probably fit a turkey in there. It came with a cookbook (there was some thought that you would now adjust your recipes to match the new 'wave -- har har -- in cooking). Mom, me and Craig stared at it and wondered what to do. Well, they said it sped up cooking. We ate a lot of bagels. Bagels were usually frozen, so they took ages to thaw and then pop in the toaster. Let's try it. What's fast? Well, two minutes is fast.
That poor bagel. We threw it in there, surrounded by a paper towel, and two minutes later we had a hockey puck. We laughed our heads off and actually flung the thing around the room. Totally inedible. Over the years we learned it took exactly 17 seconds to thaw that sucker out, ready for the toaster. Because no matter what anybody says, a toasted bagel is the way to go, and Litton was not a toasting kind of appliance.
Mom and I even attended special microwave cooking classes (two, if I remember), held at the local Lechters, or some such place; they were a bonus that came with the oven. I have no idea what they cooked, but now that microwaves are as common as televisions and coffeemakers, the idea feels quaint beyond belief.
There were other experiments -- mom warmed up her coffee in the Litton one day, and sparks flew out of the lip, which apparently was coated with a metallic layer. Ruined the metal on the mug, but the microwave kept on ticking. We scrambled eggs and popped them in; they came out oddly greenish, but edible. As kids we couldn't use the oven, but the microwave was safe; when I had my early anglophile period I heated up the cold iced tea in the refrigerator in a mug and sat downstairs sipping my hot tea and watching Robert Scorpio on General Hospital do his Australian accent thing and talk about taking a "dollop" of milk in his tea. I was entranced.
And the damn thing never gave us a minute's worth of crap. We moved house from Rockville to Gaithersburg when it was about a year old; it sat in the same location in the kitchen until it died, just last week.
Always.
Alas, the only proof positive photos we even had the microwave are in the pictures on the left; Mom may have others, but here you see confirmation that in December of 1982, at my first teenaged birthday party (during which I am woefully afflicted by a) unicorn obsession b) eyeglasses c) puffy sleeves) I was being carefully watched over by our friend the microwave. Litton. Litty. Never had a name. It was a freaking appliance We've done pretty good in the appliance department. For one thing, pinching pennies teaches you not to toss something just because it gets cranky (see my computer notes from a few days ago), and I think sometimes appliances respond in kind. Litton never got cranky at all. My brother Craig is still using a JVC VCR we got in 1984/85, at least last time I checked. Mom says the washing machine lasted beyond all reasonable expectations. Talk about brand loyalty -- if Litton still made microwaves, I'd go buy one now. But most people get a little glitch, and out it goes. Nobody repairs (and most of the time, the repair is more than the item). But I think that's a shame. Nothing wrong with a little spit and polish. Did I mention the microwave was always clean?
And now, it's gone. Mom put something in last week, punched in the time, and "it went black," says Mom. They tried the circuit breaker, but alas, it was gone. I sense a part could have been obtained via the Internet (while looking for Litton photos I stumbled across a few sites that seem to agree) but there wasn't much thought put into it. Litton doesn't make microwaves any more (they've been bought by some other giant) and Larry likes new gadgets. So there's a new microwave.
They've named it Ferdinand.
Naturally, there are numerous other doodads occurring in my life which are more important than a microwave, but which make me tired to go into detail about. So, a brief summary:
1) The Weakest Link does not want me as a contestant; there was an audition, I wasn't very funny, and I missed questions on their little test. Okay, smartie: What city are the 2002 Summer Olympics being held in? What continent is an orangutang from?
2) Oh, to be swing dancing the way I was at the Feast With Famous Faces benefit the other day. Oh, to be swing dancing with that same partner -- a lovely guy from my show who surely will have four million, two hundred and eighty two thousand things better to do before we actually cut a rug for real. But one can hope.
3) I have a blister, courtesy of the Green Party. I went to a fundraiser for two local candidates (my running in that race could be a dark horse; I'm still working on things but the radar isn't telling me much) and spent part of the evening cutting up bread and cheese because no one else had thought to do it ahead of time. This is kind of a problem with a lot of the Green Party, as I've noted. On the other hand, I was laughing fit to cry when the entertainment of the evening came out: A lady playing a saw. A Scottish balladeer who sang three songs. A white jazz combo. A semi-funny comedienne who barely seemed to know why she was there. Did I mention a woman playing a saw? She even had her boyfriend there to hold the instrument at one point; I called him a "saw roadie."
4) In further do-gooding mode, the day after the blister party I spent the day down in Brooklyn walking a big heavy willful dog named Ozzie (who I spent most of the afternoon calling Hozzie, for no reason I can imagine). Gorgeous animal, couldn't give a shit about me. He lived in the B.A.R.C. shelter in Williamsburg, so a bunch of us from New York cares headed down in the morning to help the shelter dogs be seen at the "Paw-rade." Those Brooklynites take their dogs seriously -- while waiting for our leader to get there (he told at least four of us 8:45; turns out we were 2 hours early because he failed to tell us of the changed start time) a couple of us ate in a nearby cafe. At the entrance was a bowl of doggie biscuits. "When my dog gets here, we're closing up the restaurant to get to the Paw-rade," the waiter told us. What, is his dog out running errands? So Ozzie and I dragged each other around from 10:45 until about 3. The dog never sat still for more than two minutes; I kept hoping he'd crash out on the grass and let me sit, instead of pulling on me. One dog seemed almost comatose; I was jealous. So we're finally leaving the park, about to walk the 12 blocks back to B.A.R.C., and Ozzie not only sits in the middle of the pavement, he gets all the way down and rests his head. Would not budge. Could not be dragged. I tried playing "got your tail!" which had made him bothered before. No chance. People walked around me and clucked their tongues. I might still be there except for one other volunteer who had a packet of free dog biscuits and took pity on me; he jumped up for those. Faker. I knew it.
5) Spoke with Mark on the phone. Mark is the one person I know personally who was in the WTC when it was hit; his story is worth retelling, but I can't do it now. Too exhausting. In any case, he got out safe, which I knew fairly early on. I sent a card because calling felt weird (we broke up in January) and he called back so now we're in touch. The other guy I was dating earlier in the year was a cop at the Criminal Courts building; I feel like I ought to contact him, but that parting wasn't very amicable. What does it mean when you care enough to check in on someone to make sure he's still breathing, but don't care to have much contact beyond that? So I don't know if I'll be phoning.
But I do hope he's ok.
