Shit happens. Here’s a story about shit and the happening thereof.
The oven broke. Don’t fret deducing the cause. Sometimes shit happens. I bought it 20+ years ago and it’s the cheapest electric oven on the market. Be reminded that the appliances of yore, which would last generations, are long gone. In 2025, an appliance kicking off for no good reason despite being merely 2 decades old is pretty common.
Mrs. Curmudgeon announced the oven wasn’t getting hot. I was sicker than a dog. I lumbered into the kitchen, pressed the same damn buttons she had and got the same results. “Yep, broke.” I went back to bed.
The next day I tried to crawl around the oven and deduce what might have caused the situation. I figured I had about a 20% chance of fixing the thing. Odds were that it was something buried in an integrated circuit board that would be unavailable, soldered on, cost so much it was pointless… or all three. But I always give it a shot.
Except this time I was super sick. I got dizzy trying to poke around in the beast. I called it a day.
Weeks passed and I haven’t died so I guess I’m getting better. This weekend I poked around the device again. I finally extracted the heating element and (after considerable consternation) the thermostat. I was still pretty weak. I moved a lot slower than I normally would.
Then, because these things happen, a bit of the sheet metal housing slipped and cut a considerable divot out of my thumb. This is where men and women are different. I was like “damn this is going to slow me up”. Mrs. Curmudgeon was like “he’s lost a fuckin’ finger!”
I administered first aid and assessed the situation. I still had a bit of a cold and now my thumb hurt. I decided I didn’t care about ovens anymore.
The decision tree of “do I go to the ER or not” is a drag. Like most men, I won’t go to the ER if I can possibly find any excuse to avoid it. If I’ve lost at least 50% of my body weight in an explosion or a live crocodile bit off my leg at the knee… I’ll consider it. Even then I’d rather try gauze and tape to patch a missing femur than fill out paperwork at an ER.
I recognize this and I recognize it’s stupid. I do a lot of stuff solo and because of that I’ve “trained” my inner lunkhead to avoid letting my stupid attitude get the best of me. I’ve created heuristics that I’ve beaten into my head. When shit gets serious and the wolves are circling I remind myself to stick with the heuristics.
If I seriously think I might need the ER I’ll go the ER immediately. I’m probably damn near dead! If someone else sees my wound and passes out, that’s another red flag. OK fine I’ll go to the ER. And, most importantly, if Mrs. Curmudgeon wants me to go to the ER I’ll go. I’ll even try to go without complaining.
We’ve been married forever. She’s the love of my life. She has my best interest at heart. Men will childishly bleed out bitching about a $50 insurance co-pay. There’s a time to listen to women.
We found ourselves en route to the ER. Not the medical monopoly at the nearest city. Around the time Obamacare took over, a heartless corporate monolith bought every hospital for miles and subsequently reduced the quality of service until it’s abysmal. It went from “modern well delivered medicine” to “pretty OK for Pakistan” so fast it’ll spin your head. Last time I was there (for a very serious emergency) I asked for pain meds, was given an Rx for pain meds, was billed for pain meds, and suffered needlessly as the pain meds mysteriously vanished (presumably to be sold in a parking lot somewhere). A place that’ll let you suffer to make a few bucks on the street is a place to avoid.
Since my thumb was pretty well taped up I was in no hurry. We drove the opposite direction to a rural ER. I didn’t have a serious injury so there’s no advantage to a city hospital (and many drawbacks)? A small town rural ER can put in a few stitches much faster and easier than the big city ER which will infect me with something exotic while overbilling me.
I checked in. Someone else in the tiny hospital was having a bad day. The staff was busy. I apologized for adding to their burden and said I was more than willing to be patient. I’d brought a book! Then I stretched out on the bed and happily fell deep asleep. Like I said, I’ve been sick lately. I’m low on energy down to the molecular level. Even with the hustle and bustle all around me, I slept like a baby.
In the middle of a long period of waiting I heard some nurses talking.
“No, take that to #1.”
“Then who’s in #2?”
“Some farmer. Probably nicked his finger on barbed wire. Dude’s got zero fucks to give and is taking a nap. He can wait until we’ve got #1 handled.”
Indeed I could. I drifted off again wondering how “sheet metal oven” turned into “barbed wire”. I was pleased they assumed I’m a farmer. I’ll take it as a compliment.
Eventually they got to me. I was patched up in a jiffy with Dermabond. I definitely preferred that to stitches! It worked slick as a mitten. I carry super glue in my first aid kit but I’m thinking of spending $25 a shot for real Dermabond.
There was no avoiding the requisite Tetanus shot. I wasn’t really paying attention. Then I was yoinked back to reality. The fuckin’ shot hurt more than the cut that started all this. I feel like it wiped me out for the rest of the day too!
We went back home to a house without an oven. The next day I crawled all over the infernal thing with my multimeter. I isolated the problem as coming from “that thing there that’s all soldered and shit”.
I’m sure I could go further but I won’t. I’m not going to go overboard trying to rescue a 20 year old bottom of the line appliance. It broke and the fix ain’t obvious. Let it go.
We’ll ride out a bit of time with hot plates and a microwave… it’s really not that big of a deal. Ideally (after we get some ducks in a row) I’ll get Mrs. Curmudgeon a nice gas powered appliance (the delay involves chasing down a LP installation person)*.
That was my weekend. How was yours?
A.C.
*We could replace with electric in a few hours. Gas will take weeks due to retrofitting things. But it’s the plan. Mrs. Curmudgeon watches cooking shows and reads cookbooks. Both things baffle me but to each his or her own. I notice all cooking shows have gas stoves. It’s apparently a thing. We’ve got 220V electric appliances not because they’re superior but because that’s how our shitty house was setup when we bought it. It’s simple to install the next replacement and continue the annoyance (to Mrs. Curmudgeon) of glass topped electric stovetops. This time I want to get her something better. Now is just as convenient as anytime for installing gas. Dropping $600 on a new electric stove in a big rush won’t motivate us to upgrade… ever. I may have to stalk and kidnap an LP technician to get it setup but that’s life. Maybe I’ll finally be able to use my cast iron frying pan in the kitchen too? Who am I kidding? She’ll probably keep chasing me out of the kitchen no matter what gets installed.