We recently went through four coffee makers and are on our fifth. How did that happen you ask? Good question. Part argh! Part stupid. Part what? Part shit! Oddly, after we got our fifth, I’ve been dreaming of another.
The first one broke. Just wouldn’t turn on one day. Its job is to turn on, but no. It stopped cooperating.
The second one was purchased by George. My mistake. He came home with a twenty-dollar Mr. Coffee with no automatic shutoff. We need that, because after years of having an automatic shutoff, we’ve gotten used to it. This coffee maker owned us. I was constantly worrying about it. Did I turn it off? Did George turn it off? Is the house going to burn down? Should I go back home and check on it? I left post-its near the machine and on the garage door to remind us, but we eventually became accustomed to those too. The post-its were also attractive décor which screamed ‘stupid people live here’.
The third one came from my daughter and her boyfriend. They had one in the garage they weren’t using. Okay. Why not. They brought the big box with original packing over to the house. We opened it.
“Where’s the pot?”
“I don’t think it came with one?”
“I think it’s a one cup.”
“But there is a picture of a pot on the box?” I said, pointing to the packaging.
“Oh, that’s not the one that’s in there. I don’t know where that one is.”
“But we have a one-cup,” I said, pointing to the Keurig on the opposite corner. “I wanted a new one with a pot.”
The third one left the house.
I sent George out for a fourth one. Now don’t scold me, I know what you’re going to say, but really, I gave the man explicit instructions. He couldn’t miss. And he didn’t. He got a pretty good one. The only problem came the next morning when he broke the pot.
“Unbelievable.” I said. “I think we have gremlins in the house. We’re going to have to get more sage and do a cleanse.”
“That shit smells like pot.”
“If only,” I said.
The fifth one we bought together. Not super fancy, but we cuddled our baby when we got home and hoped for the best.
But I want another. My birthday is coming up. On occasion I just tell people what I want. It’s easier that way. I once purchased a beautiful ring for our wedding anniversary and brought it home to George. “Wrap it up. I want to be surprised.”
But the thing is, I want a French Press. A cute one. This could be a tricky purchase for George, but I’m pretty sure I’m not going to get it anyway. Why? Because when we were shopping for the fifth coffee maker together at Costco, the recurring dream of owning a cute French Press occurred to me. I naturally chose that moment to announce my desire.
“I know what I want for my birthday,” I said with a smile and a little skip as I loaded coffee maker number five into the cart.
George walked away from me toward the hardware supplies. Confused that he’d ignored me, I jockeyed the cart and followed him. He was drooling over a generator. “What do you think,” he said grinning at it.
“You don’t want to know what I think,” I said. “Come on, let’s hit the fruit.”
I hate to beg, but Mother’s Day is coming up fast. You never know. Maybe they’ll read my blog. It’s a trap!