After several weeks of microwaving and ordering too much grubhub, I have a new stove.
The man who delivered the stove was just–one of those people that you would rate five stars if he was on Yelp. He had a near magical level of resourcefulness, though maybe I’m just easily impressed. First the stove wouldn’t fit through the door, so he took it out of the box. Then he determined that, as one person, he would not be able to carry it up our narrow stairs alone (he assessed my capabilities and did not ask for me to step up). So he just went outside and asked a random man if he wanted to make $20! This takes a combination of people skills, discernment–the man was not so much random in that seemed to find this normal, which the stove guy must have ascertained by sizing him up–and flexible problem solving. The not-really-relevant thing I kept thinking was, “This guy would make an AMAZING production manager.”
Unfortunately, no domestic drama is complete without a little bloodshed, and the man cut his hand on the stove while assisting, then bled all over the burner knobs. (Don’t worry, we tipped them, and the stove guy doubled the man’s compensation for assault-by-stove.)
Fortunately, his cut was minor and only needed one large bandaid.
Unfortunately, after they had moved the old stove out of the way I made a mad dash to vacuum the ten or so years worth of dust and dirt and weird unidentifiable green stuff that had been residing under the stove, and if you have more experience with household appliances than I do, you may realize that the green stuff was actually rat poison.
Fortunately, I found this out when the stove guy commented, “Oh, you got rid of all the rat poison” and could immediately wash my hands.
In short order everything was installed. The new stove was a marvel, and most blessedly has an electric ignitor so we don’t have to watch for rogue pilot lights anymore. The stove guy and his new friend left and my roommate and I sat back to admire the shininess of our acquisition.
Then we realized that…the oven door wouldn’t shut. Like, a one-inch gap where the left side stuck out at an angle. So I ran back down the stairs and out in front of the apartment in my socks (I’m afraid I’m getting a reputation for this) to catch the guy. He came back in, confirmed our concerns. Tried to see if the screws in the door were loose: no. Checked the rubber sealant for any lack of suction. No again. Finally he just pushed on it really hard. And that seemed to do it.
And then, yesterday, when I was doing my Duolingo Russian practice, I received this practice sentence…
So the moral of this story is: yes, your appliances are spying on you.
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