I can see clearly now.

Two years ago, I remodeled my kitchen. It was like Laura Ingalls Wilder’s The Long Winter. It took forever. I ate only cereal for two months. And no, I still haven’t touched up the trim paint. I’m just now beginning to accept that it still needs to be done.

As part of this magical remodel, I got a new microwave – a fancy one that goes above the stove and has a fan in it for the stove. From day one, this microwave has sounded like a jet. And not in a good way. In a this-might-set-the-house-on-fire way.

But, much like the trim paint, I just couldn’t face it. For two years. Yeah, I know.

I finally called Sears and had them come out to look at it while it was still under warranty. The repair guy was very nice, but he was wearing these John List glasses that just really threw me.

You remember John List, right? He was the accountant who killed his entire family in the early 70s and then vanished. And the forensic sculptor made a bust of what List probably looked like 20 years later – and made a point to put these dark, heavy eyeglasses on the bust. The sculptor figured that with List’s psychological profile, he’d want to look important.

They found List, and he was totally wearing the same glasses. The same glasses being worn by my Sears repairman!

So, the repairman was all, “Oh, you need a new wavemasher and a new transponder” or some such thing. And all I could think of was, “Oh, please don’t kill me and turn the furnace down to 50 and leave classical music on the radio and tell all the neighbors that I’m out of town while you make your getaway and become a model citizen in Colorado. And no, I don’t watch too much TV. What are you talking about? Please don’t kill me.”

But he just ordered the parts and promised to come back in a week.

So, a week passes, and the repairman comes back. But pulling a microwave out of the wall is a heavy, two-person job, so he brought another repairman.

And that repairman was also wearing John List glasses!

I shit you not.

So, they fixed the microwave and chatted with me about Foxie Doxie and Lil’ Frankfurter, all the while planning on how they’d lay out our bodies and hopefully not splatter blood on their glasses.

And then they left.

And my microwave no longer sounds like 27 freight trains. And the doxies and I are fine. But we probably need to stop watching those true crime shows.