And then the microwave spoke to me—not in the cold haughty tone that the French-door, counter-depth, freezer on the bottom, stainless steel refrigerator uses, but in a whiny lower-class accent.
"When are youse going to clean me, fer chrissake? My ceiling's been covered in crap fer a week now."
I slammed the door shut, and his interior light went out, but the ugly words hung in the air.
"He's right, you know," the refrigerator sneered as only the French can. "I distinctly heard him tell you the cake in a cup was a poor idea and likely to explode."
"But the picture on Facebook looked so good, and since when can microwaves talk?" That's what I'd told myself. It made sense at the time, before I began having daily arguments with my kitchen appliances.
"If you'd made a cake in the oven the way you're supposed to, it never would have happened," the range hollered. "Actually using your oven, have you ever thought of that?"
"Don't be such a hothead," the refrigerator murmurmed. More a hum than a murmur, but her words were clear. "And use your inside voice; you're not a barbeque."
The stove simmered down, but the microwave kept flashing its digital keyboard, and the refrigerator exuded icy disdain. I slunk out of the kitchen.
I'd left my iPhone in on the dining room table--too close; they might overhear--so I carried it back into the bedroom.
"Please," I said to Siri, "Where is the closest restaurant offering take-out?"
