A loud crashing noise from the kitchen. Something on the level of a rusted VW microbus hurled against the side of the house by a Visigoth catapult. I rush to the bottom of the stairway and holler “Anyone hurt up there? We have a large deductible, so the right answer would be no.”
The hard-bitten-off answer: “Toaster. Oven. Fell. Over.”
Measuring the tone and disgust in the answerer’s voice (K-Mac prefers not to be identified), I whisper a mousy “Oh” and scuttle quickly back to my lair.
By design and policy, most loud noises—except for the damnable 80,000 horsepower leaf blower in the hands of the low-self-esteemer next door—never reach me down in the womb room. I have few demands in life but I insist on being comfortably sheltered from reality 24/7.
By the way, what did those poor, dead, once colorful leaves do to deserve being blown into the road by a blowviator trying to convince the neighborhood he doesn’t have erectile dysfunction? Isn’t being raked into a bag humiliating enough? Imagine if every time somebody’s uncle went up, a funeral home guy came out and blew Uncle Bob dead-ass over dead-teakettle into the gutter?
Maybe they do things like that in countries where anarchy and anchovies thrive and the president rides around half naked on a naked horse and sits naked in an empty bathtub in the middle of the backyard waiting for that rare naked woman with a supply of E.D. Begone to pass by and note the empty tub next to him. But not in America. (Except, doggone it, the God of Broken Wind next door is an American. Should I write my congressman?)
Anyway, I got to thinking “Hmm. How does a toaster oven fall over, anyway?”
A toaster oven doesn’t just make some gasping sound and fall over. Those babies are built pretty close to the ground—or the countertop. Like sidewalks. Never saw a sidewalk fall over. Of course, they are cemented into the ground.
I thought of going upstairs to suggest gluing the toaster oven to the granite countertop. Heh, heh. I guess that was a none too subtle hint that we are indeed affluent and successful and special enough in life to have granite countertops.
Think of all the poor slobs who have laminated plywood. I mean, where is your pride, people? Is it the cost? Maybe you need to cut down on luxuries like ice cream and pepperoni and vegetables and water. That’s what we did because we were tired of people coming over and setting fire to our countertops and laughing and then rushing off to a party where the kitchen wasn’t always crowded with firefighters and their hoses. You can only take that for so long.
When we decided to go all granite, my only hesitation was the bedroom. I like a firm mattress, but the granite just seemed a little unyielding. That was before I learned about Granite Number mattresses. It works this way. You pick a number—any number—and they install a granite mattress with that exact number on it. Wow, what a nice engraving job.
Friends who come over for parties now stay longer and set fire to fewer things. And by the way, good-bye morning back ache. (A lot of that has to do with the plywood laminate we laid on top and the shag carpet we laid on top of that and then sleeping in the guest bedroom.)
Hmm. You know what? I bet a granite toaster oven would be a lot less likely to fall over. Or burn toast.
©Patrick A. McGuire and A Hint of Light 2013-2015, all rights reserved.