I’ve lost my microwave.

How does one lose a microwave, you ask?

Frankly, my dears, I have absolutely no clue.

All I know is that I had a microwave and now I do not.

I had a microwave in Louisiana (the first tour). I happily nuked stuff in the Egypt that was McCrory, Arkansas.  I re-heated many a leftover slice of pizza in that aptly named town of Bald Knob, and Alabama dished out the bags of microwavable popcorn as only a pretty little box of cancer-causing waves of radiation can…

And, yet, here I find myself sitting   in our new house [insert huge sigh of relief],quietly tucked  away in a private little road smack dab in the middle of suburbia, tearfully reflecting on the big gaping hole in my heart (and countertop) that was once consoled and temporarily filled by the sweet smell of quickly heated baked goods and other various fattening things that taste like heaven once made gooey and nearly unrecognizable by the tiny waves of happy heat that could only come from the devil because they are just that awesome and obviously evil.

(Oh sweet saucer of microwaved Hershey’s sauce over ice cream/fudge/dinner, you complete me.)

I’ve lost my microwave.

And it totally sucks in a cold and unforgiving way.

And, combined with the fact that there is no dishwasher in my new (old) house, it may just cause me to lose my mind.

As soon as I unpack it, that is.

On the other hand…

My three-year-old  just told the noisy kids next door to “be quiet, dudes”.

So I take it back.

All is right with the world.

And the stove gets hot, right?