The Cross I Bear

Note to Sandra Bullock:

This year we will celebrate our 14th anniversary. During that time we've lived in 7 apartments and 1 house, brought one outstanding Jawa into the world. You've had 3 jobs. I've had, I don't know, something like 50. I've lost most of my hair, while you seem younger each day. We've owned 3 cars. We've seen friends' marriages fail, seen babies born.

And yet, during that time, you've owned just 1 coffee maker. Now is the time for you to know just how much I hate that coffee maker.

I hate it with the white hot heat of a thousand suns. I hate it more than I hate hippies. I hate that I know that the first time I empty the dishwasher after Sunday, it'll be there. And I'll have to dig it out, reassemble it, and then shove it into the lower cabinet. Why always the lower cabinet?

I hate that it's scratched. I hate that it's red. I love the color red and hate seeing it spent on such a vile instrument. I don't even like coffee, have never used the coffee maker myself, and yet am forced to deal with it each and every Monday.

I hate that it sits there on Sundays, full of old coffee, with a spoon laid out on the counter in front of it. I hate that, when put away, it shares space with our toaster, overshadowing its retro cool by drawing attention to its own broken-down, utilitarian countenance.

Each year Flush Puppy and I try to make you buy a new coffee maker. I felt we came close on Saturday, but in the end you backed off. "I don't want to use (the gift certificate her dad gave us) on something just for me," you said. And then, "I don't want the kind that grinds for you!" with surprising vehemence.

So home we came, back to that ancient, dying-a-slow-death embarassing coffee maker. "It still works!" you say cheerily, I'm sure impressed with the idea of a small appliance that, despite its worn appearance, continues to function adequately. I know you have a soft spot for unassuming yet efficient items. But the truth is, I just can't look at the thing anymore. I can't be assaulted by 15-year-old coffee smell every Monday. I can't stand its little percolating sound, how I wake up on Sunday and hear it there, doing its job while long past its prime.

I've seen the present -- coffee makers are now sleek, chrome machines. They offer a number of coffee-making options. They come in a wide range of prices and features.

Somewhere out there is a coffee maker for you. It won't break the bank. We can retire the red coffee maker. I won't have to struggle to fit the filter into the top thing, then re-fit the top thing into the base when it predictably comes apart. Nor will I spend thirty seconds of my life -- time I will never get back -- trying to slip the lid into its housing on the glass pitcher.

I have thought many times about that glass pitcher, about how good it would feel to fling it against a wall or drop it from a tall building. I have approached the Jawa about sabotaging the entire works. A thin, glass pitcher shouldn't survive 15 years. It should have been dropped long ago. Then we would be free, our home unmarred by decripitude.

Please, I beg you, you have a birthday coming up. Can we please buy you a new coffee maker?