I just want to look at her, in all her shiny redness and promises of a freshly brewed cup in two minutes or less.
Keurig, you are my Christmas surprise, and I’m quite smitten. I might name you Katie. Katie Keurig.
I have secretly been pining for this crazy invention for a while now. But I wasn’t going to ask for it for Christmas – not with all the gifts and joy my parents would already bestow on my happy little elfin children. It seemed a little over the top to ask for a most expensive gift for myself. I think it’s a sacrifice that comes with parenting: you resign yourself to a smaller line in the Christmas budget.
But then, oh, but then. My mom said, “I found a store with lots of great gifts for you, but then I also found another great plan B. Your dad is pretty excited about it, too.”
My dad’s interests are far and wide, so a gift that could ring his bell might be anything from a soft pashmina to a wall hanging to a sound trac to Glee to an air compressor. So I had no clues.
But also, I didn’t want any clues. I am perhaps, and I say this with humility, the best person ever to receive surprises. I love surprises. Love them. I even love knowing that a surprise is coming, and keeping my hands and thoughts to myself just so I don’t ruin the surprise for myself or anyone else. I used to tell Robb, “Please just tell me where it is, so I’ll know not to find it.” He kept the file for our Mexico trip in the lefthand desk drawer, right where I could have found it, knowing there wasn’t a snowball’s chance that I would look. This is how much I love surprises.
(Doesn’t that just make you want to plan a surprise for a girl like that?)
The gift looked very Suessical: red, white and green striped paper, wrapped and topped with a polkda dot bow of the same color scheme. (I have secret aspirations to dress a little girl in such loveliness.)
There is now a digital video of me opening one end of the box, seeing that my mom had written, “This is the wrong end” just under the inside flap. Because she knew I would pay attention to the directions, and she doesn’t like to have to interrupt the surprise process. So I opened the other side instead, and I saw that telltale K-E-U-R… and that’s when I knew.
It was like Dax Shepard’s surprise sloth for Kristen Bell. I mean, you can’t fake this stuff.
(And it’s not even like I deserve this kind of prestige. I’m the girl who sees nothing wrong with reheating yesterday’s batch of full and robust goodness.)
If anyone needs me, I’ll be spinning right through the ceiling in a caffeinated frenzy, because I’m delighting in making cup after cup.