Sad Woman, Happy Coffee

First, the coffee maker died.
Then the replacement died.
Then the replacement’s replacement died.

Then I found myself halfway inside a dumpster bin at dawn, in pajamas, trying to locate a broken machine while questioning every decision that got me there.

This is why people snap.

When our old coffeepot finally gave up the ghost, I was secretly thrilled. I don’t have a ton of counter space, and I hate clutter. Hate. It. It's my personal kryptonite.

Having both a clunky drip pot and a full-size Keurig crammed together into the same tiny kitchen corner drove me nuts. Finally, I had an excuse to upgrade to the Keurig Duo, the one with both a carafe and a single-cup option.

My husband, a 'pot-o'-joe or bust' man, argued against it for months, with the unfathomably illogical reason of "We didn't need it." (Incorrect, sir.)

But when his beloved machine konked out, he reluctantly agreed. Ever the economist, he insisted we carefully pack up my still-working Keurig "just in case".

I was delighted. We broke it in with our Thanksgiving houseguests.
By February, it was dead.

We pulled out the backup Keurig, only to find it, too, had inexplicably joined its deceased brethren.

At that point, I knew two things:

1. I needed a machine that actually worked.
2. I was gonna be stuck drinking my husband's crappy coffee for the near future.

So I grabbed a sleek little number that seemed solid enough (and vaguely familiar), and as a treat, picked up some Happy Coffee.

I'd seen the brand on Instagram, and all that ethical sourcing and mental health advocacy caught my attention. I loved that their vibe supported causes I care about.

Plus, buying a tub of coffee that openly partners with NAMI felt like a small way to help fight stigma.

My family teased me that I'd only bought it because of the RDJ connection. (Fair.)

Either way, it felt like a win. A silly little story about survival and balance practically wrote itself that night.

Anyway.

That evening, I went home, set up the new machine, placed that cute little Happy canister in front of The Balkan Storm's enormous metal can o' budget (which I had been sustaining on and was…not doing well), and programmed the next morning's brew.

An hour later, at 9 pm, he came upstairs to bed and casually mentioned, “You know there’s a fresh full pot of coffee downstairs?”

Guuhhhh.
Again: no Sumatra. I was as sharp as a potato.

No biggie, I’ll just heat it up in the morning, I thought.
Gross, but economical.

Well.

The next morning, I stumbled downstairs and nuked my overnight cup of Happy, channelling that scrappy, waste-nothing spirit of my depression-era grandparents.

It was…not great. But hey, it’s been in a pot all night, so of course it’s gonna be off, right?

So I made a fresh pot while reminding myself there are much better ways to save money than drinking seven-hour-old coffee.

It was delicious. Surprisingly smooth and well-balanced.

Not really strong enough to replace my 'punch-you-in-the-face' Sumatra, but that's okay. It earned a spot on my shelf anyway.
Because some things you keep not for what they do, but for what they mean.

But if Happy ever releases a “Classic Chlorogenic ” or “Caffeinated AF” blend, I'll switch my morning blend without question.

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Back to the timeline:

Keurig finally sent that replacement machine, and it also died, just as fast as the first one had.
No worky, no coffee.

At this point, I was twitchy. I’ve defended Keurig to my husband for ages, and this was the fourth machine in about as many years.

I was done. Did the whole ‘dramatic toss into the dumpster’ bit and messaged Keurig again. (still under warranty, for the record).

After much back-and-forth, they stuck to their replacement-only policy (which, c’mon, would you want a third machine if the first two gave you no reason to trust them? I wanted a refund; those things are a little pricey).

Amazon stepped in for the actual refund (when they didn't have to, I might add, so kudos), but not before informing me that it wouldn’t happen unless I returned the machine. 

Which, if you’ve been following, was now buried under several days' worth of trash.   

Did I mention I hadn’t had my required amount of caffeination in a while? Because that feels like an important detail.

So that’s how I ended up: five feet nothing, 100 and nothing, half upside down in a dumpster bin, trying to retrieve a dead machine to exchange for some small measure of restitution.

Later, my husband asked me why I didn’t just tip the bin over onto the lawn and fish out what I needed.

Sir.

Zero Sumatra. I was plagued with the dumb.

I eventually bought a different, much smaller Keurig so I could return to my Sumatran stability. My need for instant caffeination supersedes my ability to hold a grudge.

No, I’m not proud.

And yes, I know it’s just coffee. And it’s just a machine.
But it never is, is it?
It’s really the last straw (or was in my mind, at least).

When everything else in your life feels precarious: plans, people, legal stuff, even your own patience, you lean hard on whatever still works.

And when that fails, it's beyond annoying. It feels like a betrayal. (Dramatic, yes. But not untrue.)

Because the thing that was supposed to get you through all the other things...just joined the list of things you have to get through.

It’s a reminder that you’re one cup away from teetering upside down in a dumpster bin, swearing a blue streak in your pajamas in front of your neighbor's Ring cam.

It’s the same reason why small inconveniences can feel like betrayals: they’re stand-ins for every bigger thing we can’t fix yet. And when everything else feels unpredictable, you just want one thing, one small, stupid thing, to go right.

Even if it's just the coffee.

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Oh, and that "sleek little number" I picked out to replace everything?
In my brain fog, I re-purchased the exact same machine we had before.

The one I was so glad had died and thought I was upgrading from. Turns out my husband, loyalist to both drip pots and cheap coffee, was right all along.

I’ll never say it out loud. But he knows.
And that’s too much power for one man to have over me.

So now, we're back to two coffee makers again, now sitting on boughie little pull-out trays.

He’s got his budget brew, I’ve got my Happy Coffee, and we’re still married.

So here we are, back where we started, but not really.
It's almost poetic, isn't it?
A sort of divine comedy with slightly better perspective going forward.

And a husband who's never going to let me forget he was right on this one.
Damn it.

Next Reads

• This is the weird cousin to I’m Not Starting a Food Cult, I Swear.
• If you like humor as resistance, pair it with Don’t Let the Bastards Win.
• For the deeper survival arc, see Beautiful Lies.

Heather P. is an essayist and longtime ghostwriter publishing unapologetic stories about trauma, reinvention, and the absurdity of real life.

Creator of Unfinished Business, a platform reaching readers in over 20 countries for its dark humor, emotional precision, and refusal of performative healing, whether the story is about grief, growth, or just getting through Tuesday.