A couple of weeks ago, I started the microwave oven, intending to reheat my dinner. Sparks flew. An appliance on the fritz, I had thought, but because the oven isn't very old and rarely gets used, I began to suspect the plate. Our everyday dishes were long past their prime. For quite some time, I'd been telling my husband it looked like the glaze had worn off the dinnerware. Eating utensils had left their mark in gray criss-crosses.
     It had been a steady deterioration, but I'd never thought they were dangerous. Just ugly. Now that they were causing fireworks, though, I saw a perfect opportunity to replace them.
     As if able to read my mind, a major department store sent a catalog in the mail. Temptation in the form of a sale. Page 55 pictured a mouth-watering display of shiny white dishes. Extra bait arrived a few days later when the same store sent coupons and a rewards card. I explained the seriousness of our situation to my husband, suggesting he imagine the dire possibilities should we hang on to our hazardous table service. As for me, I pictured myself throwing out the tacky old stuff and entertaining guests at a table set with respectable replacements.
     The coupons saved us a bundle. The salesperson was kind enough to wrap each bright white plate, bowl and mug in wads of paper; then pack everything in heavy-duty cardboard boxes. She suggested we arrange for pick up on the lower level so we wouldn't have to carry our purchases through the store.
     Once we had all the heavy packages in the house, we removed each piece from its tissue paper cocoon and stacked it on the countertop. Forty-eight pieces in all, each one with a pesky label affixed to its bottom. A stubborn sticker that would not come off without a soak in hot sudsy water. When that was done, I began stacking the dishes in the dishwasher.
     By now, it was seven o'clock. We hadn't eaten dinner and I was so hungry I wanted to cry. Instead, I began to curse. The dinner plates were huge-too big to fit in the dishwasher. I envisioned myself stuck in the kitchen like a 1950s housewife, washing and drying each dish by hand. That wouldn't do. Armed with desperation, some elbow grease and heavy-duty strategizing, I fit three plates in the right rear section on the bottom and three others kitty-corner in the left front. They had to be leaned towards the center just so. I feared we'd be loading and unloading until sunup.
     How would they fit in the cupboard? I wondered, as I placed one on the shelf. Miraculously, the cupboard door closed. With absolutely no room to spare. My eyes went to the bowls. What looked like a normal cereal bowl in the store's display now seemed capable of holding an entire box of Cheerios.
     "They looked so much smaller in the store," I wailed. "Why wasn't there a warning sign? Beware: these dishes are larger than they appear."
     "We could take everything back and start all over again," my husband offered in that cool-headed, easy-going way of his.
     I was tempted to whip the plate in my hand towards him Frisbee-style. But first, I needed to complete my mission: would it fit in the microwave? It did and I thought better of tossing it at my mate. It was so big it would have killed him and I needed his help loading and unloading the dishwasher. Besides, he'd promised to heat something up for dinner as soon as the first load was done.