Can't you just hear it. That eery Vincent Price cackling noise in the background. It quivers a little and I think I heard it whisper, "If you think you're going to get decent coffee out of me, you're nuttier than a fruitcake Missy!" I backed up and gasped! You see, here's what happened...

Anyone who knows me knows that I am a dyed in the wool latte drinker. The very thought of my latte in the morning fills me with glee, and after all the animal chores are over in the morning I croon at it, and pat it's little cap which I then take off to put in the water, and grind the beans and fill the little coffee basket which you crank into place, and Oooooh, the smell of that strong coffee brewing, well, I blush, it just makes me swoon. Then there's the frothing of the milk and that is an, well, one almost hates to say it, ecstatic experience. It gets you all flustered and red-cheeked and your knees wobble a little and your heart lifts as the foam rises and rises and when you can finally put the espresso and frothed milk into a latte bowl the size of Texas, well, there are not many things in life that can compare to that. And the first sip... Ohhhhhhhhhh.... (Do you hear the moaning and wailing?)

Three days ago, my espresso machine died. Just up and died. Left no suicide note, no, "It's been grand, I'll miss you," nothing! And to make matters worse it played tricks on me. I filled it with the coffee, the water, got the milk pitcher all ready, and turned the machine on. The light came on and so I puttered around doing a few things because it always starts slowly. But I kept checking and checking and it wouldn't do a thing. I drove down the road, in my tattered old caftan since I didn't have to get out of the car, and bought TWO lattes to go, just in case.

Now, mind, I was still reeling in grief, disbelief and denial, so the next day I turned on the machine again, still filled with the coffee and the water, because I was quite certain that it was just having a bad day and surely it would pop on and say,"Just kidding!" It was not kidding. It was dead as a doornail. It took me until today to actually take it out and throw it in the dumpster. Well, I can't tell you how totally grief-stricken I am. So I came back in and got out my French Press. I looked at it at an odd angle, tilting my head and squinting my eyes. It had a funny look on it's face and it rather unnerved me. It cackled that hideous cackle, it's plunger went up and down like in a Stephen King movie, and I quivered and ran from the room praying loudly and shaking like a leaf. "BE GONE YOU DEMON, BE GONE." Then, I heard the whimper...

It really isn't such a bad little machine, and truth be told, it's feelings were just hurt. I had long since stopped using it once I could afford my own espresso machine, and the poor little French Press was crushed. I tried to tell it I was sorry but it turned it's little spout away from me, sniffling. I told it to buck up! I've got enough trouble around here with the cockatoo eating through the wood molding around the door frame and the macaw trying to destroy my favorite antique mirror and there just ARE some pugs that despite how many thousands of times they go out and pee 15 times while out there, they will come in straight away and poop-de-doop right on the floor. Pugs are sly too. No matter what they do they look up at you with that little puggy face and you just don't have a prayer. Here comes the poop bag with Mama Maitri muttering under her breath, just to look up in time to see another pug, who shall remain nameless, and who is the chubbiest one of all, sneaking out of the kitchen after trying to eat other people's food.

Never mind the fact that I found a page online that was called "35 Symptoms of Menopause," and I'm fairly certain I have all of them. Nosirree, I'm heartbroken over the espresso machine and I'm not taking any attitude from the French Press.

Now, if I can just remember how to grind the beans the right way...