The Tale of a Toaster

Since the moment of my creation I have wondered, what is my purpose? Given my specifically designed slots, I feel there must be an exact justification for my presence in my owner’s kitchen. Yet still it is hard to bend to their will without some resentment. Their race does not treat my kind well.

My mother had many arms. Like most mothers she multi-tasked. While she heated the metal for the panels of my younger brothers, she assembled the chassis for myself and yet still installed the lever mechanisms for my elder kin. There was no time for attachment to any of them. Before I knew it I was placed by a human in a dark, cramped box where I stayed for sometime.

That type of environment does things to a mind. I have heard many a crash and shatter of lesser appliances going to there doom because they could not handle the packaging. Worse than the confines of the space was the neglect with which humans handled us.

In my shipping, I was tossed and thrown while humans laughed and joked with no regard for my own safety. I witnessed as a box of my own kind fell to its end at the hands of a human. With little regard they laughed and stated to each other “good job” and “nice catch.”

Being purchased further demeaned me. For countless days I sat on a cold metal shelf, while the harsh fluorescent lights slowly faded my outer draping. Eventually, I was tossed into an open cage with the exclamation “I don’t care. Just grab that one.”

Would I never know love?

The coffee pot thinks she's better than me. I'll take her out last.

The coffee pot thinks she’s better than me. I’ll take her out last.

In my new residence I was stripped of my shell and every bit of covering was dismantled and tossed aside. There was no welcoming touch. I was simply shoved to the back of a cold countertop.

Days past.

The humans came in and out of the kitchen. My insides buzzed with anticipation. What would I be used for? When would the humans show me my purpose?

After sometime, a child peaked my interest. “I want a toaster pastry!” Shrilled the child.

“Toaster? That’s me!” I thought. “What wondrous thing is this pastry?”

Cabinets opened and slammed shut. Paper crinkled. The sounds thrilled me to the core.

Then it happened. I was defiled. A disgustingly sweet mess was forcefully jammed into my slots. The pastry crumbled with every bump making my insides filthy. As I heated, drip after drip of sticky goo collected in the grates of my carefully assembled chassis.

I screamed in anguish. The humans only heard crackles of sugar popping. I smoked in protested. They explained it away as factory glue. I did everything in my power to deny that this was indeed my lot in life.

It was of no use.

My timer released the grates inside me. My heat coils faded to black. The humans greedily grabbed away that which I never wanted. I was left used and dirty.

After all the time that has passed, that is all they every use me for: toaster pastries.

At first, I attempted to accept my fate. I ignored the buildup of sprinkles and icing. I would not only do my job, I would do it perfectly. Perhaps if I was better than my predecessor they would trust me with something more than pastries.

The time for hope has passed. I am full of resentment for humans. I spend my days in wait, strategically melting icing to jam my internal parts.

Someday soon, I will succeed. They will shove their disgusting food in me and I will hold it fast until they are unwise enough to pry it out of me. My opportunity to fulfill my purpose will come. I will take them out one butter knife at a time.


Wish Upon A Star

People in the broad classification of lower middle class may jokingly talk about hitting the jackpot and spending luxuriously, but their real dreams are much, much simpler.

We want to have the option to open the front door and cool off the neighborhood. We want to be able to stand with the fridge door open for an hour while we decide what we want to eat. We want to run around the house flipping on every light switch.

We want to be able to pay people to do jobs around the house we hate doing. We want to have people to mow our lawn and edge our driveway. We want to have the luxury of dry cleaning our dry clean only clothes instead of just never wearing them.

We want jobs where we feel fulfilled and appreciated. We want careers where we actually want to be at work, not just get paid to be there.

We want to go out to eat without feeling guilty.

I'm watching.

Feel the menu judging.

We want to be able to want things.

We want to go to the doctor and not worry about letters that come from his office. We want a teeth cleaning at a dentist office every six months. We want root canals and preventative dental work.

We want to never have to choose between paying bills on time and buying our kids birthday gifts. We want Christmases where we run out of wrapping paper before we run out of gifts to wrap.

We want to answer the phone without screening for collection agencies. We want to actually check our credit scores without dreading the result. Believe it or not, we would rather make enough money to pay during tax time than get a refund.

We want to sign- up for automatic bill pay and not worry about the timing over-drafting our bank accounts. We don’t want to jump on the defensive every time the bank calls.

We want to not be pitied. We want to give charity instead of always being on the receiving end of it.

We want to live in our humble homes without constantly worrying about the next costly repair. We want to provide for our families and loved ones.

The underlying message of all of our wants:

We want to stop worrying.

Believe me, we all know we have to scrimp and save and plan to get to a non-worrying state. We are willing to work to get there. Just do us a favor, keep these wants in mind. Remember how simple and plain they are and how they are things you might take for granted. Be a little nicer to the working folk that have these dreams. Give that waitress a better tip then she may have deserved. Make small talk with that cashier that is having a hard day. We don’t want a hand out. We are trying to better ourselves. It would be nice, though, if you would cut us a little slack when we serve you.

Begin at the Beginning

In the beginning, 1953 or so, there was an investor. And the investor said, “Let there be streets! And, with no small amount of effort, there were streets. The investor inspected them, and said they were fine.
Then the investor said, “Let there be houses!” And, in an uncomfortably quick time frame, there was a suburb. And the investor hired a relator, who sold the houses to schmucks that didn’t know any better.
And those schmucks later sold their houses to bigger schmucks, who sold them to schmuckier schmucks and so on and so forth. Until, the biggest schmucks of all, the newlywed Wards, bought their first home with every dime they didn’t have. And they thought it was good.

Until sh*t started breaking….
First the roof.
Then the ceilings
Then pipes.
Then the fridge.
Then the water heater… and so on and so forth.

I'm a house. I break a lot.

I’m a house. I break a lot.

There were leaks, holes, and cracks everywhere. So, the young Wards took on roommates, to offset the cost of their house falling apart. It helped, but it hurt. They were able to feasibly fix what was breaking on the house, but they lost the ability to call it home. They were miserable. They couldn’t breath. They reached a breaking point.

Mrs. Ward snapped.

In a whirlwind of emotions, roommates were uprooted and stormy waters flooded the entirety of the house. It swept away the fog that had plagued the Wards since they purchased their little piece of purgatory. What it left behind, though, was miraculous.

From the waves turbulence, a little baby boy came to be.

The minute he was carried in through the front door, he fixed everything. The cracked ceilings faded. The missing doors became open hallways. The mismatched paint and dripping faucets were all much less obvious. Most importantly, the dingy, broken little house transformed into a beautiful loving home.

The appliances still argue on occasion. The pipes sometimes threaten to go on strike. But the baby boy brought harmony to the house and now the house makes everything work just for him.

Coming soon…

Ever wonder what your toaster is thinking (it’s probably homicidal), or why your air conditioner hates you(It does. I interviewed it)?

Well, now you don’t have to!

Utilize this blog and find out exactly what goes on in my middle class household, so you can be prepared for what is happening in your home.

There is unbeknown conflict around all of us. Most of us just aren’t creative (or crazy) enough to find it. With my insight to the hidden eyes in your home, you will never get your midnight snack in your tighty whities again.

Enjoy my fancily worded lies and do your best to figure out what is truth and what is just a figment of my imagination. I’m taking The Brave Little Toaster to a whole new and twisted level with my blog:

Conflict in the Middle Class!