coitus interruptus of the gas stove

It's been over a month since my wretched Magic Chef died. Everyone, including me, is so ready for me to stop researching gas stoves, stop nonstop yammering about them, and just frigging buy one for the love of God. Ten year-old Iris uber Alles laments pointedly, "It has been forever since I've had cookies! I need cookies!" Seven year-old Lola bitches, "Just buy the French one! It's obvious!"

Yesterday I drove to the East Bay to see a gourmet appliance outlet which specializes in floor models and expensive appliances which have been slightly damaged and refurbished. There I didn't find anything that worked for me and the limited space in my kitchen, but I did get quoted a price on the Aga Legacy which was $1,600 less than the San Francisco distributor had given me. I asked the salesman to double check that. He went off and made a phone call and came back, assuring me that was the price.

Gloating I drove home, feeling like a victorious bargain hunter. The time was right to buy: the Sober Husband had been complaining for a while, "I don't understand how you cooked all these years on a 30 inch stove and now you need a 44 inch one" and "How can it cost so much when we bought a $200 oven before?" Then on Sunday night he went out on a blind bromance date, set up by a mutual acquaintance, with the chief scientist of one of the internet's most famous companies. The two geeks hit it off so well on this blind bro-date that they closed out a sushi restaurant and consumed $400 worth of sushi and sake, the Sober Husband wandering home after midnight on a work night mumbling, "You know, he's a real regular there at this place, so at closing, after everyone else left, we got this special sake where they had polished all the grains of rice before making it. We'd had two bottles of sake before, but even so, I could tell it was special." After this massive indulgence, somehow the Sober Husband felt generous, and the next morning he said, "You should get the oven you want. The best one."

Thrilled with both this cooperative attitude and the great price on the Aga, I decided to buy. While I was cooking my (in)famous "pasta in the style of the glutton", with slow-cooked carrots on the side, the Sober Husband called the salesman I'd met the day before and told him we wanted the Aga, after telling me again I could get the more expensive French range if I wanted. I felt happy and calm as I sipped my champagne and sauted my potatoes, garlic, and chives. Then the salesman called back. He'd made a $1,600 mistake. He couldn't sell the Aga for any less than the San Francisco distributor could.

"This puts us back at square zero," I fretted. We ate dinner, nothing settled.