Sad Woman, Happy Coffee: How the Small Things Get Us Through the Big Things

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 into the same corner drove me nuts. Finally, I had an excuse to upgrade to the Keurig Duo, offering a carafe and single-cup convenience in one blessedly consolidated machine.

My husband, a 'pot-o'-joe' man, had argued against this on 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 particular season where almost nothing was predictable, my morning coffee was one thing I didn't have to think about.

Same process, same Sumatra, same result every time. I cherished that tiny oasis of reliability.

So when his beloved machine finally conked out (I swear I had nothing to do with it), he reluctantly agreed to the Duo. Ever the economist, he insisted that we carefully pack up my Keurig Methuselah 'just in case.'

We broke it in with our Thanksgiving houseguests.

By February, it was dead.

I tried every recommended fix, but no bueno. Thankfully, it was under warranty, so Keurig agreed to send a replacement.

In the meantime, we retrieved Methuselah.

Dead as a doornail.

At that point, we needed a coffeemaker that actually worked, so I picked up a cheap little number to tide us over. And since I was trying something new anyway, I figured I might as well try a new coffee too.

I'd been curious about Happy Coffee for a while, particularly its emphasis on ethical sourcing and mental health advocacy, and this seemed like as good as an excuse as any.

I set up the new machine, replaced The Balkan Storm's brew (which I was not doing well on) with Happy, 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 deficiency, I was as sharp as a potato.

No biggie, I thought; I’ll just reheat it in the morning.

Which, ok, yeah, is disgusting, but I was trying not to be wasteful. Again, potato brain.

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 my fault - 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 questionable brew and worse mornings, it was a welcome change.

Keurig finally sent that replacement machine.

It died almost as fast as the first one.

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.

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 upto my elbows in a week's worth of five-person trash, fishing for treasure, and 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?

Afterward, I bought a much smaller Keurig because my need for K-Cup convenience supersedes my ability to hold a corporate 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 just work while everything else in my life was running amok.

We were living in this weird, multi-year limbo with a full house, legal problems, family drama....my life was running the fuck out of amok.

And thats the thing about those little comforts. Sometimes we rely on the smallest things to get us through the biggest things. And when even that fails you, and you're already holding it together with duct tape and a prayer, it feels personal.

Which you know is insane.

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

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

Potato-brain unwittingly bought the exact same coffeepot that I was so glad had died weeks ago.

So here we are: two machines perched side by side, right back where we started. He’s got his precious pot, 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, really.

Since I first published this story, two more Keurigs have died.

As such, I am no longer their bitch. I've moved on to harder stuff now.

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

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

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