Once in a Limited Lifetime

A recent incident with a malfunctioning insulated coffee container led me to consider my own mortality. Let me explain:

A few weeks ago, after pouring my morning coffee into its usual insulated container, I pressed the release button to take a sip and… the rim of metal securing the button in place flew off, rendering the device inoperable. I know I like my coffee strong, but not strong enough to dismantle its receptacle.

I investigated whether I had any recourse with the manufacturer of the defective unit. Lo and behold – the company’s website said my item was covered by a “limited lifetime warranty.” Hmm… how do the words “limited” and “lifetime” co-exist? Did this mean the warranty was limited to my lifetime? Or that my lifetime – as all of ours – is, in fact, “limited” and the company felt it was necessary to remind its customers of their temporality? That seems like an edgy approach to marketing.

I filled out the online claim form to request a replacement; it asked for a considerable volume of information beyond just the name and address to which a replacement unit should be sent:

• I had to find the model number (which had worn off after years of use, as seen in the photo accompanying this post, so I had to search through the website for a comparable item)
• A detailed description of the issue (“It broke.”)
• My selection for a substitute item in case my original was no longer available (perhaps because that model was prone to disintegration?)
• Where/When the product was purchased. (“At a store/Some time ago.”)
• TWO pictures: one of the “entire defective product” accompanied by a piece of paper listing my name and the current date, and another of the inside of the lid (which apparently displayed some sort of manufacturing code). I was also presented with the option of sending an additional photo that “you feel will help us understand the problem.” That would have been a selfie displaying my befuddled expression.

I worked through gathering all the particulars and eventually was able to submit the form. I received a near-instantaneous boilerplate response acknowledging my claim. Five days later I received an email asking for *another* picture – again of the inside of the lid but from a different perspective. By this time, my perspective had shifted from “irritated” to something more heinous. I was asked once more where and when I’d purchased the item, so now I went with “[random department store]” and “[random date several years ago].” I was also asked for proof of purchase. Now, isn’t the fact that I own one of these coffee tumblers proof enough? And what if I’d been given one as a gift? Did I need to secure a sworn statement from the purchaser? I snapped the additional picture and attached it along with my other responses.

Two days later, a flurry of activity – FOUR separate emails sent within minutes of each other:

#1 “Thanks for your order John!” – confirming shipment of a free replacement item, followed by

#2 “Please be advised that we don’t manufacture spare parts of our products.^a and you did not provide us necessary information^b However, as a valued consumer^c, we want to make sure you continue to enjoy our products by sending you as one time good will gesture^d because .^e” [Cut and pasted from the original email, including the random punctuation, capitalization, and sentence fragments.]

a. I didn’t request a spare part.
b. I provided all the information any reasonable person would consider necessary.
c. This kerfuffle didn’t really make me feel like a “valued” consumer.
d. The phrases “one time” and “good will gesture” don’t jibe.
e. As was beaten into our heads since childhood: “because” is not an answer.

#3 “It was my pleasure to assist you. In the coming days you will receive an invitation to rate the level of my service.” [Considering my lifetime was, according to the manufacturer, limited – how many days was I expected to wait? Nine, as it turned out… I rated the level of service. Oh, yes – I rated the HELL out of the level of service.]

#4 “Your order has shipped!” [Be still my beating heart.]

Shortly thereafter my replacement item arrived. Upon receipt, I thought I’d gotten the last laugh out of this contretemps because the new vial was a larger size than my original item. However, when I went to make coffee the next morning with my gleaming new container, I found it was too tall to fit under the drip basket, whereas the old one nestled comfortably in place, permitting discharge directly into the flagon. Now I would have to transfer coffee from a carafe into the insulated container, with that additional step stealing precious minutes each day from what remains of my limited lifetime.

In addition to this existential conundrum, I also experienced genuine physical trauma the first time I transferred coffee into the new flask – muscle memory kicked in when I went to screw on the lid and, not anticipating the increased height, I knocked over the container and spilled all 24 ounces of free trade, humanely harvested, carefully roasted, vacuum sealed, exactingly ground, and precisely brewed organic dark black elixir all over myself and the kitchen counter. Oh, and I forgot to mention: “blisteringly hot.”

In all the ways I’d imagined how I’d one day shuffle off this mortal coil, “being scalded to death while making breakfast” was not even in the Top 10. It seemed more likely I could be electrocuted by sticking a fork into the toaster to dislodge an overly bulky piece of toast, or the orange juice might have turned rancid but I wouldn’t notice its poisonous state until I’d gulped the entire glass to wash down my pills, or – in what seemed the most likely early-A.M. deceasement – I’d trip over one of the cats who were clamoring at my feet for their morning dish of salmon paté, striking my head against one of the kitchen’s many immovable objects, leaving me permanently inert.

In any event – the company did honor the warranty, however begrudgingly. And here’s the irony: since the new container holds half-again as much coffee as the old one, I’m now consuming 150% of my previous daily caffeine intake. That seems more likely to limit my lifetime than any other eventuality.

Nevertheless – I’m going to get a toaster with wider slots. And stop drinking orange juice. Also, the cats now have bells on their collars.