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 had gotten 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 right now, 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, offering 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."

The thing is, I'm not so much a creature of habit as of certainty. During a season where almost nothing was predictable, my morning coffee was one of the few things I didn't have to waste brain power on.

Same process, same Sumatra (black, please), same result, every.single.time.

I cherished that tiny oasis of reliability.

But when his beloved machine suddenly conked out (I swear I had nothing to do with it), he reluctantly agreed to the upgrade. Ever the economist, he insisted that we carefully pack up my still-working machine 'just in case.'

We broke it in with our Thanksgiving houseguests. By February, it was dead. I cleaned it and tried every recommended fix, but no bueno.

Thankfully, it was still under warranty, so I reached out to Keurig, and a replacement was on its (delayed) way.

In the meantime, we pulled out the backup Keurig, only to find it had inexplicably 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.

His coffee is not Sumatra. His coffee is not anything.

So while I waited, I found a sleek little number to serve as a temporary bridge, and while I was at it, picked up some Happy Coffee as a treat.

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 indulgence for yours truly.

Anyway.

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

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

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

Which, ok, yeah, is disgusting, but I was trying not to be wasteful while my cerebral cortex was in airplane mode.

Well.

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

But that was entirely my fault, and I knew it. Seven-hour-old coffee wasn't exactly a fair first impression.

So I made a fresh pot, reminding myself that there are smarter ways to save money.

The aroma immediately signaled something warmer and more interesting than what I'd gotten used to. The first sip was deliciously smooth, and after weeks of bad brews and worse mornings, it was a welcome change.

I supported a cause I believe in, and the coffee delivered; to me, that's a win.

Keurig finally sent that replacement machine.

It died almost as fast as the first one had.

Four machines in roughly three years. I'd defended my love for Keurig to my husband for ages, and this is what I had to show for it.

So I did the whole dramatic toss-into-the-dumpster bit, the sound of crunching plastic deeply, almost spiritually satisfying, 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, 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 (and when you're barely over five feet, 'half-upside-down' isn't exaggeration). I was elbow deep in a week's worth of five-person trash, fishing out a dead Keurig.

Fully immortalized in all my not-glory on my neighbor's Ring cam.

My husband later asked me why I didn’t just tip the bin over onto the lawn first.

Sir. Where were you?

I eventually bought a different, much smaller Keurig because my need for K-Cup convenience supercedes my ability to hold a grudge.

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

And yes, I know it’s just coffee. I know it's just a machine. But it was the one thing that was supposed to simply work while everything else in my life was running amok.

I had a full house living in this weird, multi-year limbo, a platform I was creating from scratch, a custody battle, a dog bite I'd suffered that became a legal situation, children in crisis, hostility between families...my life was running the fuck out of amok.

So we rely on the smallest things to get through some of the biggest things. And when that thing fails you, and your nerves are already dialed up to 11, it feels personal. Which you know is insane, and somehow makes it worse.

That's how you end up in the trash at dawn.

Oh, and that "sleek little number" I picked out while waiting on the Keurig replacement?

In my fog, I bought the exact same machine we had before, the one I was so glad had died.

So here we are: two coffee machines perched side by side on bougie little pull-out trays, right back where we started. He’s got his precious budget brew, and I’ve still got my Keurig.

He also has the unspoken yet insufferable satisfaction of having been right the whole time.

It's almost poetic, honestly.

Since publication, two more Keurigs have died.

I am no longer their bitch.

Happy Coffee is a treat, but if they ever release a "Caffeinated AF" blend, I'll be first in line. Happy, my DMs are open.

My husband has said nothing about any of this. He doesn't have to; the smug look on his face says everything.

Some wars of attrition you just don't win.

Heather Papovich is the voice behind Unfinished Business. She's seen some things. She'll tell you about them.