coffee death

At my new job, there is a coffeemaker.

Now, you may read that statement and hear excitement. It’s a logical conclusion. I love coffee.

The thing is, this is no ordinary coffeemaker. It’s more like a coffee machine. Single-cup brewing. When the screen flashes full sentences at you, it ceases to be an ordinary coffeemaker. And when it comes to me and technology, well . . .

I decided to do something smart. I asked for help. From a super sweet receptionist. It’s funny how putting on a suit and a cute pair of heels can make me bolder. Somehow I wasn’t afraid of looking like an idiot. Somehow I was okay with admitting my fear of breaking the beast of a coffee machine.

She showed me how to use it. And success. For three days, I made two cups a day without incident.

And then.

Every good story has an “and then.” What would be the point otherwise? Everything would be happy and good and therefore dull. “And then” keeps life interesting. Although sometimes, you wish “and then” would happen to someone else.

On Monday, I broke the coffee beast.

I’m not exactly sure how. I didn’t attack it. All I did was slip in a hazelnut coffee packet. But apparently the beast (which I have dubbed Dolores) wasn’t ready. The packet of caffeinated goodness somehow jammed itself in the machine. It was stuck. Like really stuck. And in my completely uncaffeinated state, I nearly walked away.

I thought about it. No one saw me. The next person who tried to use the beast would probably have more experience. Maybe they’d be able to fix Dolores. There was probably some simple fix I didn’t know about it.

But, sadly, I’m too nice/good/a sucker.

I tried, for several minutes, to remove the packet or find some sort of fail-safe that would spit the whole thing out. No such luck. (Seems like a significant design flaw. I mean, if someone as careful as I am can accidentally bring the whole thing to a grinding halt, how in the world does it function at all? End mini rant.)

Finally, I had to find a receptionist (not the same one, sadly) and point her to the problem before eventually skulking away. My worst nightmare had come true. I was that girl, the one who killed coffee.

Have you ever been around a bunch of uncaffeinated business-people? Visions of a tired but angry mob filled my mind. They’d swarm around me, their zombie-like arms clawing for my neck in slow-motion. It seemed like a terrible way to die. Slowly. And worse, without coffee.

So I sat, coffee-less in my office for an hour and a half before desperation forced me to venture out again. But I was ready to run, if things turned ugly. (Yes, I can run in heels. You may be impressed now.)

The break room was empty. And Dolores?


Apparently the powers-that-be had repaired her. Perhaps there was some secret code that cured her. I have no idea. But this time I slipped in a packet and prayed that I wouldn’t be the girl who killed the coffee twice. I’d probably be banned forever.

So far, Dolores is okay.

But it’s only my second week.

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