Me vs MO

The Times explores the microwave oven. I say the formal "oven" because the microwave oven and I are not familiar, and certainly not going to use nicknames. Throughout college, I didn't have a M.O. Years after graduation, A.P. and I lived without the convenience of a fast heat-up, and instead chose the stove. Sure, there were times when I wished I could nuke something. But that's just it. Besides the fact that we were broke and couldn't afford a M.O., "nuking" make me nervous. I've heard rumors about how it gives you cancer or gives your food cancer, or maybe I've never actually heard these things said, but they've entered me via societal osmosis. And now that I've grown and have engaged the M.O, when I heat up my coffee at work, it's clear to everyone that I don't know the etiquette: I stand close and watch through the window. My coworkers say, "you are gonna get cancer."

I don't know if this whole cancer thing is legit, and I don't even want to look it up, but it isn't the only deadly side effect of the microwave. When I approach our communal appliance, and I see that the last person to use it has left remnant seconds, has not pressed clear to erase the blinking digits, I fill with silent, kitchen rage.

And how the hell can a piece of bread get so hot so fast?