OMG, I suppose it doesn’t do any good to pretend I didn’t lick the brownie bowl? (Or, um … eat half the pan?)
I wouldn’t admit that, except last Thanksgiving, my family engineered an anti-mug intervention group.
“You promised to quit this.” My husband stared me down. “Instead, you’ve been smuggling mugs from the flea market. Sneaking off to Cracker Barrel when allegedly picking up milk. The cabinets are so stuffed, we’re afraid to open them.”
“Why are you uptight?” I countered. “It’s not like I stole any from the church.”
Had he found my blueprints for a new wing — a Mug Museum — hidden in my office?
Unreasonable. Mugs save lives. Would civilization survive chilly mornings without steaming drinks that keep workers functioning and murderless?
Perhaps I should consider tossing my snowman mug which, despite its exorbitant price, chipped the first time I microwaved coffee. A few heated sessions later, Frosty lost his nose. Made in China, the mug probably was coated with mercury. Still, I sneak occasional coffee with Frosty. How will I make it through the approaching winter without his cheerful grin?
So far, I’ve ignored him. But given Frosty’s uncertain future, I’ll have to buy a clearance snowman mug after Christmas.
Please don’t tell my little coffee buddy. Such disloyalty might make him fall to pieces, and if I tried to fix him … the only thing superglued together would be my thumbs.
I rarely use my smaller mugs except to torture unpopular relatives with a stingy supply of caffeine. But I can’t bring myself to give them away. (The mugs, not the relatives.) They might feel rejected. What if someone wrapped you in newspaper, tossed you into a box and dropped you off at Goodwill?
A new epiphany strikes me.
My shelves teem with flowery mugs. Mugs with hearts. Mugs with angels. Soon, I’ll bring out a hundred girly, Christmas mugs.
My husband’s collection: a sacred Indiana University mug; one boasting New Testament books of the Bible, including “He Brews” (guess who gave the tea lover that one); and a 1983 Doctor’s Day mug.
No wonder he borrows my Oreo mug.
Such inequity is downright unjust.
Fair play will result in even more crowded conditions. And an absolute mandate to construct the Mug Museum.
My name is Rachael, and I’m a mug-aholic.
You, too? Let’s fill a couple with favorite brews and drink to that!
Your Extraordinary Ordinary: Do you regard your mugs as family members? If not, what collection do you treasure? (Does your spouse?)