Back by popular demand, it’s the Microwave Hour!

After last month’s thermonuclear meltdown, I subconsciously harbored some sort of insane idea that I could skate by without a microwave oven.

Complicating this search is the fact that I’m the world’s worst shopper. I must review and research until I’m basically disgusted with all of my options. This applies to peanut butter as well as a new computer. Frozen edamame. Leftover quinoa. Pretension requires 10 COOKING POWER LEVELS and SCRATCH RESISTANT GLASS DOOR. Don’t let your artisanal brain tell you otherwise! Reheating and defrosting without this essential item is a waste of your very life.

And still things die. Chance failure can’t be investigated away.

So I’m winging between Best Buy and Lowe’s, calling my dad for Consumer Report reviews while searching on Amazon’s hive mind. No microwave is perfect (the philosopher said so) but I hadn’t prepared myself for some of the Amazon reviews.

People really, really hate their microwaves.

The most annoying thing about this stupid Emerson is the beeper. The beeps from this Emerson are the loudest beeps I have ever heard from a microwave. I feel like I’m going deaf from it. We have to stop it before it starts beeping or run out of the room. You can’t do anything while it’s beeping. You have to wait until it’s finished its full 5 or 6 beeps. I have to run away from the damned thing it’s so loud and annoying.

Finally, I realize that I’ve wasted almost two hours of my life on the search and settle for a mediocre model that one reviewer deems “Horrible Odor – DON’T BUY THIS UNIT.”

That’s when things get weird.

Best Buy in recent times has decided to relieve their associates of hustling for commission, replacing that rather natural expectation with something so much worse – constant checking and creepy friendship.

“Just letting you know that we don’t work on commission” turns into the following real conversation:

Jeff from Best Buy: “Hello there! How are you feeling this fine evening?

Me: “Oh, fine.”

Jeff: “Ah! I’m so glad. Did you just get off work?”

Me: “Umm… not exactly?”

Jeff: “It’s been a while, hmm? I just thought that with your [points at my necktie and hat]…”

Me: [silence]

Jeff: “Are you looking to replace your microwave or buying a new one for a new place?”

Adam: “Replacement.”

Jeff: “So, what do you like to do with your microwave?”

Let me break in here for a minute. I wasn’t able to in this scenario, but it would have been nice.

Adam: “Well… cook things.”

Jeff: “Ah, some people use microwaves for defrosting and others use them for reheating.”

Adam: [silence]

Jeff: “Okay, well just let me know if you need assistance. And remember – we don’t work on commission!”

This conversation actually went on a bit longer, but I blacked out somewhere in the middle and when I woke up, I WANTED TO BUY A MICROWAVE SO BADLY.

Few things in life have such remarkable consistency, but a cargo airplane is one of them.

The roar usually begins at 11:04 p.m. Other times, 11:07 p.m. Rough weather might slip it back to 11:10 p.m. There must be some amount of finger-drumming and toe-tapping.

This UPS flight always heads the same direction – straight away from my apartment windows, out across the water of the Illinois River and into the night.

I know that it’s an Airbus A300 and I know that it goes from Rockford -> Peoria -> Louisville. I do not know if the pilot and co-pilot are fun folks, with loose neckties and wild keychains.

Maybe there’s music playing once they reach a cruising altitude.

Maybe it’s terrifically boring.

Maybe I’m the only one who notices.

There’s a small mica plate in all microwaves called the “wave guide cover.” It’s typically happy to sit unnoticed, but my wonderful model has melted and spewed plasma all over a small bag of popcorn.

“Hi, I was cooking my food in the microwave and I realized the a corner piece was missing from the wave guide after I ate my food! Will this cause any harm?”

No doubt!

I’m told that children learn by the time they quit wetting themselves that a microwave should never, ever, NEVER BE ACTIVATED WITHOUT ANYTHING INSIDE OF IT. Doing so risks a Chernobyl-esque event of unearthly glow and arcing terror. It’s plasma, for Chrissakes! And I am the idiot pressing the accelerator pedal straight to hell.

This little microwave was satisfying. For a device whose entire existence rests on ease-of-cooking, turning that dumb analog dial was terribly efficient. No pecking at numbers, power levels or food types. Twist and go.

I’m running an extension cord toward the river, tears streaming from my bloodshot eyes, my microwave’s door flopping open just as it hits the water.

Ding!

I spotted the 1960’s Yamaha M1 in a Craigslist ad – it had been the basement possession of a Peoria woman who recently kicked the bucket. In other words, it was a Sunday driver piano. No mildew, no rat droppings, no rust. It’s sleek, with no front legs visible and a model designation that also works for a high-caliber weapon. Now $600 and sweating in a garage.

I’ve owned many electronic replicas, but only one other piano – I was just a kid, but I remember my name being listed on the title (warranty?) card for a new Schafer & Sons upright that my parents bought. There had been much harassment over the years about getting a real piano after Santa had gifted me a 49-key smaller model with batteries. The idea of it missing 39 keys of potential (and MIDI, too!) drove me absolutely nuts. I mean, I had catalogues clipped with replacement options! So the day that the real deal was delivered to the Gerik house was a joyous occasion of much merrymaking. Or noisemaking.

Fast forward a bit and watch me move off to college, packing an 88-key controller keyboard, 61-key synth and amp into my little Ford Focus. It kept me in the game, tagging along once again when I finally moved to Peoria, Illinois for my first job.

But that acoustic piano never strayed far from memory, always to be dismissed as something that a renter should never pursue along with a giant vinyl record collection and modern art weighing over 500 pounds. But every man has his price, the moment where a crazy idea seems within reach and obstacles are blatantly ignored. I was finally living in a building with an elevator and a loading dock out back. A 31-year-old should be able to handle complex machinery.

I enlist the help of my friend Chris. He brings his enclosed trailer and plenty of ratchet straps. The seller claimed that he had a piano dolly, but it ends up being a 2-foot square piece of wood on wheels. Chris and I manage to get it up a short ramp to his trailer, but there are a few times wen it feels like he might be doing it all himself. I’m a wuss.

We hustle through rush-hour traffic toward Downtown Peoria, keenly aware that there is precious cargo in back. It’s all elevators and level floors from here! On the final turn toward my building, I hear a noise. Not a terrifying noise of a piano exploding, but the sound of weight shifting. We’ll be okay.

The vehicle comes to a stop at the loading dock, the doors swing open on the trailer and I nearly retch. THE PIANO HAS TOPPLED. THE KING IS DEAD.

I later explain to the piano technician that “a few things went wrong” and that the piano “was in pretty great shape” otherwise. I’m a liar. The legs of the bench have punched two deep holes into the wood underneath the key bed. It’s hopeless – splintered wood, regret for roping a friend into the mess, sorrow for even thinking I was responsible enough for a piano. Two fangs sunk into my dream.

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We push the ruined piano upright, carefully pull the piano bench out of the piano and shove it into the elevator. It’s a beautiful paperweight. My hands engage keys, activating the the Rube Goldberg action of bringing hammer to string, and it WORKS PERFECTLY.

The bench, on the other hand, is in shambles. It has taken on the task of supporting 600 pounds admirably. I throw the thing into a corner of the apartment and decide to never use it again except for firewood for a fireplace I don’t even possess.

This brings us forward eight months, with registered piano technician Barbara finishing part two of a full regulation on the trooper and I’ve never been happier. The bench is fixed and I’ve spent about the same amount of money to restore it as to get it in the first place. THIS PIANO HAS HISTORY.

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This is a vinegar valentine. It’s not mine, but it could be if I had a talking dog. I do have a blanket that I sleep under at night and a nose to smell farts.

I am that dog at times, though. My girlfriend found this particular valentine funny and so did I. We laughed and, eventually, I started puffing for the first time in my life. Labels are important – especially when we’re talking about euphemisms for bodily functions.

I’m shopping at Target last week, unable to decide on anything in particular while I pick up one object to replace it with another and then go back to the original. It’s maddening and extends to my cheese purchases. I settle on a neat little package of cracker-cut slices.

Later, my girlfriend learns that I’ve purchased cheese and points out my subconscious decision to procure fart cheese.

But it turns out that it’s not Limburger – it’s Dubliner.

PUFF.

“Well, when I went for my jog this morning, I thought it was going to be pretty warm. But in the event, of course, it turned out to be pretty cool, really. Uh, then it began to cloud up this afternoon quite contrary to the weather forecast, naturally. And I shouldn’t be a bit surprised if we get a spot of rain tonight.”

– Fawlty Towers, s01e05