Your food is ready.

Poor microwave. You're just not the smartest appliance in the kitchen, are you?

Sure, you possess the unique power to cause molecule gyration, creating friction and heating food up by crazy alien magic (or so it seems).

But it's impossible to ignore your sad little foibles. Like the fact that your timer doesn't have an off option. Or that your handle is falling apart and can cut fingers if gripped in the wrong spot.

And that you always announce with a ignorantly chipper beep, "Your food is ready."

Because, dear sweet dumb microwave, we don't always use you for food.

Granted, hot tea is potable and therefore ingestible, it's not food. A food item perhaps, but not food.

So when I want my steamy mug of green tea and you say, "Your food is ready," I always pause and think, "There's no food to be ready."

And it's not always edibles that go in the microwave. When I'm heating up leg wax and you proclaim to the household that the food is ready, I worry about you, microwave. Because no one in their right mind would call leg wax food. Yet you seem to think it's appropriate to spread on crackers and toast.

There's another fallacy to your logic. Even if you're heating food, it's not always ready when the countdown is over. Many items require repositioning and reheating. Sometimes up to three rounds of changes. And each time, you sing, "Your food is ready," and I get resentful. Because my macaroni is still ice in the center and I know it's going to be another four minutes after I've poked holes in something, or transferred dishes, or stabbed the cheesy cube a few times.

Microwave, at times like that, your proclamation isn't just ill informed. It's downright rude.

We need to work on your announcement, microwave. Perhaps you should say, "I am shutting off."

Or, "Thank you for using me instead of the toaster oven."

Or a simple, "Have a nice day."

I will give you one acclamation, microwave. You spelled your correctly. So I suppose your odd sentence can slide. For now.

Your education doesn't impress me.

You have an MBA.

So what? That doesn't impress me at all.

I went to college. I have a degree. And it was easy for me.

I imagine it's easy for tons of other people.

You know what isn't easy? Paying for college. And paying for an MBA.

That is what impresses me. That you found thousands upon thousands of dollars in order to write how big your penis is on your resume.

I am not impressed by your MBA. And I'm fairly certain I'm smarter than you.

So quit bragging about it.

Of course there isn't more video.

Since I just posted about a video, I must get this story out of my brain.

Yes, yes, yes. I got married a few months ago. And like most weddings, there was major head butting between the bride and the person with the checkbook.

Not that the wedding was extravagantly expensive. It was well under the Dallas average. But that aside, we didn't hire a videographer. We're lucky that we live in the days of the Flip cam and the iPhone. And various people recorded our nuptials from various angles and I'm slowly putting them all together for a DVD to watch when I'm a 50.

But last night, my dad asks me, "Who recorded the reception?"

What?

"Dad," I very carefully replied, "no one recorded the reception."

"Why not?" he asked.

In a panic, not knowing how to answer without totally insulting him, I eeked out, "We didn't hire anyone to record it. So no one did. I've seen a snippet here of a few dance floor videos. That's it."

"So no one recorded our dance* or the cake cutting?" he directed at me. With complete ignorance.

At this point, I'm shocked. One, because he knew damn well he didn't want to front the money to pay a pro. It was discussed heavily. And I was cool with that (because as a photographer, I like photos anyway). And two, because we had PIE AND NOT CAKE. How could he forget that? He fought me on it until the night before the wedding. Seriously. At the rehearsal dinner, he asked me, "Are you sure you don't want a cake? We can probably still get one."

"No, dad. The only thing we have from the reception are pictures. No video."

"Oh. Hmm. Maybe we should have hired someone."

Fuck me.

*That he never picked a song for, by the way. And the DJ had to scramble for one LITERALLY as Dad was going to the dance floor. Never mind that I harangued him about it weekly. Then daily once we hit the seven-days-before-the-wedding mark. I even sent him MP3s and said, "Choose one."

I need help.

I watched a cell-phone-camera video the other day of me dancing with a friend at Cooter and my wedding.

Well, it's wasn't so much us dancing as it was my friend slinging me around. And me awkwardly trying to keep up.

Even a wedding dress can't make a marionette look graceful. In fact, referring to myself as a marionette is insulting to puppets.

You know what I looked like? One of those children's toys that collapses when a button is pushed. Because it loosens the taut strings that keeps it rigid.

I'm all elbows and chin when I try to groove.

It doesn't help that I'm tall, either. So these long limbs just flail with the grace of a falling egg.

It brings back painful memories of when I was in high school gymnastics. When I would dance on the beam.

"Perhaps we should just focus on the skills and tumbling," my coach said when I attempted a graceful arm movement. Woman fail.

I even took a pole dancing class the other day. Seriously. Seeing myself in the mirror got me so nervous that my hands kept sweating. Which made it even harder to dance. Which made me stiffer and ... The instructor was very kind. Perhaps I'll go back?

Or perhaps I'll just get so drunk the next time I have to dance, that I won't care.

As long as no one takes any video.

I'm two people.

I faintly recall changing my name around three months ago.

It wasn't that hard of a process. Stand in this line. Show this form of ID. Show this sheet of paper. Sign this other sheet of paper. Get a photo taken.

Boom. Sweet new name.

Well, apparently, that made me a whole new person.

Because as a humble freelancer, I now have to re-fillout all of the wonderful W documents that I've already so bitterly filled out.

Not that it's a huge deal. It's just that lately, they keep pouring in. From various clients.

"Oh, well, we thought everything would be fine with your old stuff, but we really need to fill everything out again."

Because for some reason, when they see my new name on my invoice, my old name appears on my check.

And then the bank looks at me cross-eyed.

"But this isn't you," they say.

First name. New last name.  "Who the fuck is that?" I ask.

Middle name. New last name. "Who the fuck is that?" the bank asks.

You see, my parents decided to call me by my middle name and I dropped my maiden name entirely, so the bank is basically looking for a person who (to me and my husband) doesn't exist.

But to my point, shouldn't they have a record of who I used to be?

Perhaps I should carry two drivers licenses around with me (which is illegal).

Dude, I just wanted a cooler name and health insurance. Geez.

Perhaps you shouldn't stalk your potential customers.

I am a home renter. I've been a home renter for the last eight years (holy crap, really?).

More specifically, I've been an apartment renter. And I like it.

But the American Dream includes owning a small piece of land. And my husband and I will be pursuing this dream in 2011. So I joined one of those harmless real estate websites where we can innocently browse neighborhoods.

You know, do some research in advance.

Only, it's become creepy.

Yesterday morning, for example, I received a phone call around four in the afternoon.

"I noticed you were looking for homes on our website earlier today ..." said the voice.

Um, what?

I know a freaky amount about Internet analytics. I worked at a company that created websites, for crying out loud. And I still freelance for websites.

I know about analytics.

I know that companies will track web users to understand their habits (the average amount of time people spend on Website X is twenty-four seconds).

So I'm not at all surprised that the website a) knew I was there and b) logged in.

What surprised me is that only hours later, a human called me and then called me out on it.

"You seem to be interested in the ___ area."

Creepy. Very creepy. You know, my computer has a webcam, too. Did that freaky ass monger hack it? Because now I'm paranoid as shit.

What else does that guy know? Does he know that my hair was in curlers and I was wearing a robe? That I was drinking a lukewarm green tea? That Bridezillas or some equally embarrassing show was on in the background?

Don't call me saying you know where I've been. I'm pretty sure that's legally stalking. And if not, it's damn close.

I'm so excited, I can't sleep.

The queen will be blogging from a shiny new iMac very very soon.

Not that I'm going to abandon my faithful PowerBook G4. We've had some crazy times together over the last five years.

We've been to New York a few times. LA a few times. We've consumed countless cups of tea in coffee shops across the DFW. 

My PowerBook lived beside me as I recovered from surgery. And then I fretfully paced as it went to the hospital itself.

It's been my faithful companion on nights when sleep couldn't be found. And it's also kept me up way too late despite being completely tired.

We've laughed. We've cried. We've worked. We've played.

And although my devoted PowerBook G4 is going to be used less now that the big iMac is moving in, it always will be important to me. 

No woman ever forgets her first true love. 

Cheers to Stone Fox, my first Macintosh.