Let’s get the embarrassing stuff out of the way: I’m 28 and I’ve never owned my own coffee pot. Never. My parents – to this day – won’t touch the stuff. They make coffee, maybe four times per year, with the same appliance they received as a wedding gift. Thirty years ago. It still works great, BTW. Sometimes I drink from it, but only on holidays or if a grandparent is present. Otherwise it’s stocked up in a cabinet, nurturing mold that hasn’t been seen since the 80s.
Maybe it was growing up under their roof that led me to live a coffee pot-less life. Obviously, I’d inherit theirs one day and continue the tradition of caffeine made with refrigerator grounds and a large, boxy machine – assuming it was Christmas or Easter.
This is my parents’ real-life coffee pot. I texted my Mom for this picture, and she dug out the machine, dusted it, and sent this back within two minutes. Zero questions asked.
Except I kind of like coffee. I love tea, but sometimes you need a kick in the pants. Not just a daily sipper. And coffee does just that – kicks you when you need it.
So I might have bought a cup here and there. Or drank it at other, normal, peoples’ homes. Once I had a roommate who owned a French press, which seemed like way too much work, so I steered clear of that method, too. Then I had a different roommate who had a real coffee maker, one that brewed more than one cup at a time. For a straight few months we enjoyed the joe. Until the pot was shattered; we looked at its empty carcass for twice as long as we’d had the working version.
Former roommate, like me, just assumed the problem would fix itself. Someone would donate a new glass container, or a coffee pot would magically be given to us. Lap-fallen and un-broken. In the same way I got my office chair, kitchen stools, printer, and later its power cord. (I’m telling you, this method WORKS!)
Before it could happen, we moved to separate addresses, each of which had a coffee pot of its own. Or so we thought. My brand new husband, the self-proclaimed “coffee-maker owner” never unpacked his model.
“Hey,” I said to him one day. After all of the boxes had been put away. “Didn’t you tell me you had a coffee pot?”
“I did,” he told me. “But the guys broke it at work.” Then he pulled out hundreds of coffee filters, like they were some sort of peace offering. “But we have these.” We can make snowflake crafts for years, but we can’t use them for beverages.
And like a beacon of hope, a family friend bought it for us; she explained it would be arriving in the mail.
“Finally,” I said, “We will have coffee! And thank goodness I changed our address on the registry!” I told myself, “That would be a REAL disaster if it were delivered to my old place.”
I even enlisted a scout to check our door during vacation; the pot never came.
Weeks went buy. And as a regular Target shopper, I know just how punctual they are with deliveries. It was far past their deadline.
So I did the awkward thing and I told family friend about it. Messaged her up and said something along the lines of: “Hey that thing you bought us, we didn’t get it. I need another one. Kthanksbye.” Like a full-grown brat.
But like the wonderful woman that she is (even though I still owe her a knitting order from last Christmas), she contacted them to make it right. Turns out it’d been returned (thanks for letting us know, Target. Pshhh), so they sent a new one. Only it went to the wrong address. Again. My old one; it was listed in two places via their “user-friendly interface” and I only changed the one. On account of common sense and logic, not department trickery. Though I should have known better; it’s never that easy. There wasn’t even a CAPTCHA to make me question my own address; it was too good to be true.
To my knowledge, the second pot hasn’t been returned. The new residents are likely enjoying it daily. For free. The very same way I should have been doing at that address six months prior. Like I was Sandra Bullock in Premonition, where I was waiting for something to happen and it eventually did … because future-seeing me caused it.
But seriously, what’s the ruling here? Can I knock on the door and ask how they’re enjoying their free brew-maker? Is that kosher or creepy?
I, very seriously, contemplated doing it either way, only Bo told me I’d get shot.
Apparently coffee is a much bigger deal in the South.
Thankfully, Target once again saved everyone’s lives and gave family friend a refund. Apparently they didn’t want me getting shot, either.
And now our third pot is on its way … you know, until something else comes to mess it up. In which case I’ll go out and buy the damn thing myself. Or expect a different one to show up unrequested, it’s anybody’s call.