So, yeah. Me and the child-spawns have been denied microwave usage for over 7 years now. Only us. Not the husband.
I feel all deprived and archaic ‘n stuff.
The first microwave caught on fire when Greedy Kid #1 decided to cook Oodles of Noodles with no water in it. That dry, stiff block of noodles. No water at all. WTH?
And the second microwave was shooting sparks from the bottom like those Fourth of July sparklers thingies. I had to pull the plug before fiery flames engulfed the kitchen.
That was it. It was over for us.
Me and the spawns were unjustly labeled “fire starters” by the husband. He got himself another new microwave and set it up in his man cave instead. If you know anything about man caves, they’re not the kind of place a woman desires to hang out. The fanciest of man-cavers might maintain theirs like a palace, but the man cave over here smells like stale cigars and needs maid service with hazmat gear.
I ain’t going in there. Don’t wanna. Been using the stove instead. For everything.
But here’s the sad part.
Greedy Kid #2 came home all bummed out for some reason. So I said to him, “What’s the problem, boy?”
And he says to me, “I went to my friend’s house today. We were about to eat snacks, but I didn’t know how to work the microwave. It was embarrassing.”
GASP!
My children do not have the First World life skill of microwave operation.
Oh well.
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