I’m in love with my Gaggia Titanium coffee machine (it’s okay to be in love with inanimate objects, I saw it on Boston Legal once, and if it’s good enough for Denny Crane then it’s good enough for me).
My coffee machine’s name is Mario. He’s named after Mario Cipollini the Tour De France sprint star who rode with the Saeco team in the nineties. Mario was flash, he was fast, he looked hot in his racing-red bike top and nobody cared if he never made it to the Champs-Elysees, that wasn’t his job.
Yes, it’s a stretch to call a coffee machine Mario. It’s a stretch to call it anything but ‘have you turned it on yet?’ But Saeco own Gaggia, there was a Gaggia Titanium in my kitchen and it seemed natural.
Our neighbours down the road are the ones to thank for this. They bought themselves a new coffee machine, sleeker, less bulk, nicer knobs and we inherited their old one.
It wasn’t long before I fell for Mario.
Two days and I was hooked. Sure, I can make all the coffee I want at work. One for the customers, one for me…but Mario, well he was mine.
And so it was. I’d wake up and before anything else happened, ‘Morning Mario’, I’d turn him on. He’d warm up, it didn’t take long, I’d press all the right buttons, and he was good to go. At night, I’d make sure he was tidy and shut him down, a last look over my shoulder before I took to the stairs, ‘Nigh, nigh, Mario. See you in the morning.’
It all sounds so innocent.
But he got his hooks into me.
I guess that’s love. It starts of surprising and sweet, but sooner or later, you’re picking up his dry-cleaning, driving him to the airport, finding his beer bottle caps lining the kitchen window sill and wondering where all the fun has gone.
Coffee beans empty. No they’re not, Mario, look!
Empty dregdrawer. Okay, okay.
Fill water tank. I’m doing it.
Then this, the clincher. E3. E3? We don’t even speak the same language anymore. Boy, that didn’t take long.
This is a dependancy.
Mario depends on me to keep him going. He’s like my cat, my kids and my car. I’ve gotta feed him and water him and wipe him down if he get’s too hot. And I depend on him for coffee. The thrill of crema in the morning, a latte late at night, a babycino for the children, and his smashing, smashing good looks.
So we’re dependant? Big deal. That’s love. I’ll say it.