As a kid, I remember stuff not being so crappy. "STUFF" being ANYTHING, and "CRAPPY" meaning POORLY MADE.
Back then an iron and ironing board would last long enough to become hand-me-downs because they were made of Superman Steel and would never, ever die. So my mom used her mom's iron, who used her mom's iron, who used the iron that was smuggled over on the boat, forsaking all food, just so she could have the heirloom iron from her mother's mother's mother that wasn't a giant plastic piece of crap.
Unfortunately, I took one look at irons and said, "That's what permanent press is for" as I walked out of the house ironless and naive.
I didn't realize that someday I would be a sewin' and ironin' fool, and that permanent press meant I would be permanently pressing my nose to the ironing board (instead of the grindstone).
Young Brian was running late today. I offered to do the morning Skyewalk and would make coffee.
I Skyewalk.
I make coffee.
Brian have been living together for three years and have gone through four coffee makers already. The last one was discarded because I accidentally melted the cord (don't ask) and everytime I moved it, I endured electro-shock therapy. We figured it was time to get a new one.
We bought the Turbo-Deluxe-Electra 2005 (two years ahead of its time) because it has that snazzy "Sneak-a-sip" feature. (You can grab a cuppa before it's done brewing and sip ultra-leaded fuel to super-charge your body into action.)
It's a sleek, jet black model. Ohsofine. It beeps when it's done brewing. It has timers and bells and whistles and makes us look not only rich, but cool.
After the Skyewalk I grab my I heart eBay coffee mug, and I am sure-as-shingles gonna sneak-a-sip.
I do. It is mud. It's pouring out in clumps, The handy dandy shut off thingy has not shut off, so sludge is oozing out all over the hotplate, bubbling and gurgling, and spilling onto my shiny black digital button pad.
Digital numbers start blinking. The machine starts screaming like those damned wombats in my basement.
BleeEEEEbapbapbapbapGAAAAAAAAAAAAAAK. BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEErwwwwwwipipipipip.
Broinkyoudumbnitwityoudiditthistimeandyouwillpay.
Skye rolls himself into stimulation overload mode, the way that all Australian Shepherds do. He's growling, barking, jumping, his hair is standing up and he is ready to KILL the Turbo-Deluxe-Electra 2005 with the "Sneak-a-sip" feature.
I push the off button. It stays on. I unplug it, and it's still brewing and bubbling and even though it is no longer SCREAMING at me, Skye is still trying to rip its innards out.
So, here I sit. Coffeeless. My sleek, shiny BRAND SPAKING NEW Turbo-Deluxe-Electra 2005 with the "Sneak-a-sip" feature is in a big angry heap on my front lawn, because Friday is crap (trash) day, and that's what my Turbo-Deluxe-Electra 2005 with the "Sneak-a-sip" feature IS.
I wish my mom's mom's mom's mom had brought over HER coffee maker. It may not have been pretty, but I bet it delivered.
Skye is in his crate, fuming at me because I won't let him kill the shiny black plastic attack-wombat he had cornered in our kitchen. He could have been the hero, but I ruined it for him. I already forecast that my eventual children will despise me for exactly this sort of spoilsport activity.