A cold box of lies.

This is not a microwave. This is a box of lies.
For months now, our so-called microwave has been dying a slow death.
It began with some steam-in-the-bag broccoli that
I found still frozen when I retrieved it after the 7 minute timer was up.
I was confused and a bit perturbed, but I let that little slip up go.
Everyone makes mistakes, right?
Even microwaves.
Eventually, we learned some tricks to keep Mr. Microwave happy.
For awhile we left it unplugged during the day,
except when we wanted to use it, and that helped.
But things got worse.
It started working sporadically, even when
we'd left it unplugged all day.
Once, it took me 30 minutes to successfully warm up a baked potato.
Another time, Ryan got so frustrated
he ate his frozen burrito still partially frozen.
This past week, in my desperation, I tried moving the stupid box to a different spot in the
kitchen and plugging it into a different outlet.
And it worked.
Sort of. At least the first time it was plugged into that outlet.
Then I started carrying the microwave all around the
apartment and taking turns with each outlet when
I needed to heat up food.
(And that would be why you see it sitting on the carpet,
creating a fire hazard, in the above photo.)
Finally, we'd had enough.
On Sunday we hung our heads in defeat
as we walked through Target in search of a new microwave.
(Don't you hate spending money on practical nonsense like kitchen appliances?)
When we got home, I punched the old microwave in his
stupid little non-functioning side panel, Ryan dropped him
into the new microwave's box and we bid him
good riddance.
Good-bye, cold box of lies;
hellooooo, warm leftovers!