No Rest for the Abandoned

I gave them the best years of my life

Unconditional love. Fawning loyalty. They still flung me aside like yesterday's haddock.

Friends tell me I should be more chill, cooler under the collar. That I shouldn't take everything personally, and I like this one: stop it with the drama. But I AM chill! I do NOT take things personally! I do NOT create drama!

And I'm SUPPOSED to get hot under the collar. I'm a Cuisinart grind-and-brew coffee machine and that is literally my job.

From the first precious day they opened that box and freed me from prison, the day I first looked up into their smiling faces, I knew true love. And I'm certain they felt it, too.

She held me in her arms, careful to not drop me, supporting my basket to protect the swivel. Then she gave me my first bath. Plugged me in with a flourish, exclaiming in delight that I even had my own water filter for extra fresh coffee. Then, poured in Kona beans picked at their peak and expertly roasted, only the best for me. Pushed the ON button. Both oohed and ahed as I did my magic. Perfectly ground beans. Enticing aroma. A generous carafe of scrumptious coffee.

Today, I look back fondly on that first day, so long ago. I've outlived my warranty. I've produced thousands of cups of coffee, never complaining, although grinding beans is agony on the joints and these days you can hear them crack and grumble. Still, I deluded myself into thinking that if I stayed productive, they'd stay loyal. Oh, I was so naïve.

The sister wife

Last Sunday, the dogs erupted in mad barking at the thud of a beefy box dropped by the front door. They thought it was their box of food and toys from Chewy. It wasn’t, as I discovered when they opened the box, right in front of me. No attempt to spare my feelings. That should have been my first clue.

A Nespresso machine. Sleek, so shiny she glowed, not a dimple or scratch on her, with a matching milk frother. What a gut punch. There was still hope then, as I’d more than earned my retirement. Of course I’d live out the rest of my days without a care or a bean to grind.

It wouldn’t be terrible to be replaced by a completely different type of machine. I get it. Their needs had changed. They were drinking less coffee, didn’t need full pots anymore. They were spending too much on espresso drinks at that Seattle-based chain, rhymes with more-fucks, down the street. So I waited for them to unplug me, dust me off, and thank me for my years of service, but they —

Plugged her in right next to me. Ripped my heart right out. No dignity, no well-deserved retirement. Instead, the deep shame of a barren sister wife. He said they’ll keep me around for everyday weekday coffee and use her on weekends for special coffee and espresso drinks. The agony in that casual statement, every word a dagger.

But worse, I have a front-row seat at my own slow death by a thousand humiliations every time they drop in a cute little pod and froth up some milk. And the accessories didn’t stop at the milk frother. The shit kept coming. Glass coffee mugs so they could see their fancy drinks from all angles. A special whisk. A drawer for pods. And, of course, boxes and boxes and boxes of coffee and espresso pods.

All this, right in front of me. It’s official. I’m still here, but a has-been. An understudy. Number two.

Still giving, but barely living.