Sad Woman, Happy Coffee

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

Having both a clunky drip pot and an ancient 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' man, argued against it for months, with the unfathomably illogical reason of "We didn't need it."

But when his beloved machine also conked out, he reluctantly agreed to the upgrade. Ever the economist, he insisted that we carefully pack up my still-working machine "just in case."

I was delighted. We broke it in with our Thanksgiving houseguests, but by February, it was dead. I did the cleaning and tried all the recommended steps to fix it, but no bueno.

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

At that point, I knew that I needed a machine that actually worked, and I was gonna be stuck drinking my husband's crappy coffee until I did.

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

I'd seen the brand on Instagram, and its emphasis on ethical sourcing and mental health advocacy caught my attention. I liked that it supported causes I care about.

My family teases that I also bought it because of the RDJ connection. (No comment.) Either way, it felt like a justifiable investment.

Anyway.

That night, I got home, set up our new machine, lined up my cute little Happy canister next to The Balkan Storm's industrial budget brew (which I was not doing well on), and programmed the next morning's pot.

An hour later, at 9 pm, he wandered into the bedroom and casually asked, “You know there’s a fresh pot of coffee downstairs right now?”

Guuhhhh.
Thanks to the lack of my coffee, I was as sharp as a potato. But I thought, no biggie, I’ll just heat it up in the morning.

Ok, yes, that's disgusting, and I'm not proud of it. In my defense, I was trying not to be wasteful, especially after foregoing the ground version of my usual coffee because I foolishly assumed my new Keurig would still be alive.

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 I thought, hey, it’s been sitting in a pot all night, so of course it’s gonna be off.

So I made a fresh pot, reminding myself that there are smarter ways to save money than drinking seven-hour coffee.

It was delicious. Surprisingly smooth and well-balanced.

It wasn't strong enough to replace the 'punch-in-the-face' Sumatra that I require, but that's okay. I still supported a good cause with my purchase.

But if Happy ever releases a “Caffeinated AF” blend, I'll switch without question.

Moving on...

Keurig finally sent the replacement machine - and it died almost as quickly as the first one had. No worky, no coffee.

Now, up to that point, I’d defended my love for Keurig to my husband for ages, and this was the fourth machine in about as many years.

But now I was done. I did the whole dramatic "toss into the dumpster" bit, listening to the deeply satisfying crunch of breaking plastic, and messaged Keurig again. (Still under warranty, for the record).

After more back-and-forth, they stuck to their replacement-only policy (which, c’mon, who wants another machine after all that? I wanted a refund; those things ain't exactly cheap).

Amazon ultimately issued the refund (they didn't have to, so kudos), but only after informing me that it wouldn’t go through unless I returned the machine. 

Which was how I ended up half upside down in a dumpster bin, fishing out a dead Keurig like a raccoon hunting for treasure in a week's worth of 5-person trash.

Have I mentioned I was running on a severe caffeine deficit? That feels relevant since my husband later asked me why I didn’t just tip the bin over onto the lawn first.

Sir, I was plagued with stupidity. And where were you when I could've used that idea?

I eventually bought a different, much smaller Keurig; my need for instant, fresh coffee supercedes my ability to hold a grudge.

I've accepted that I'm Keurig's bitch.

And yes, I know it’s just coffee. And it’s just a machine.
But it is really more than just that, isn't it?

It represents the last straw. When everything else in your life feels precarious: plans, people, legal stuff, even your own patience, you start leaning hard on whatever still works.

And when that one reliable thing fails too, it can get to you way more than it should.

It feels a bit like betrayal when the one thing that helps 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 on your neighbor's Ring cam (sorry again, Janice).

When everything else feels unpredictable, you just want one thing, one small, stupid thing, to go right.

Even if it's just the coffee.

Oh, and that "sleek little number" I picked out earlier?
In my fog, I bought the exact same machine we'd already had.

The one I was so glad had died and thought I was upgrading from.

My husband was right all along. I’ll never say that directly to him, but he knows, and that’s far too much satisfaction for one man to have over me.

So now we're back to two coffee machines again, now perched side-by-side on bougie little pull-out trays.

He’s got his budget brew, and I’ve got my Keurig, but now there's an emergency bag of Sumatra tucked away for when it all goes sideways again. Forewarned is forearmed and all that.

So we're right back where we started; it's almost poetic in a divine comedy sort of way, but with a slightly better perspective going forward.

And a husband who will never let me forget he was right about this.

Damn it.

Related Reads

• If humor-as-resistance is your thing, read Don’t Let the Bastards Win.
• For the deeper survival arc, go to Beautiful Lies.

Heather Papovich is a long-form essayist, cultural writer, and longtime ghostwriter whose work explores lived experience, cultural identities, and the emotional mechanics of everyday life.

She is the founder of Unfinished Business, an independent digital publication blending personal narrative with cultural commentary, currently read in 33 verified countries.

Her writing focuses on reinvention, the emotional weight of ordinary moments, and the role popular culture, particularly long-running franchises, plays in how people cope, connect, and create meaning.