When Mother came home today with one for her and one for me, I held mine up to my husband and said, "My spring mug!"
"Your what?"
The look on his face reminded me of something I wrote after our renovation ten years ago...
Gentlemen, if you’re going to ask the woman in your life the question, “Do you really think you need...?” don’t be surprised at the response. There’s only one reasonable answer to give you, and that’s The Look.
Familiar, centuries-old, perhaps even genetically implanted, this facial expression is a mixture of disbelief and disdain. It is usually followed by the word, “Yes.”
Shoes. Scarves. Hats. Magazines. Nail polish. Cookbooks. Cats. It doesn’t matter what the collection is, if it’s in a woman’s house, it’s important. If it means something to her, it’s unquestionable.
My husband and I were slowly putting the house back together after the renovations are completed. Since cooking was a priority once we’d moved back in, all the boxes containing pots and utensils and graters and measuring spoons were unpacked first; the only boxes left to unpack were two boxes of mugs. My mugs.
“Do you really think you need so many mugs?” my husband asked after I announced that my least-favourite mugs would have to go on the top shelf because I couldn’t reach it without a stepping stool.
I froze, mug in hand, and stared at him. This from the man who uses the same two mugs every day for every beverage. This time, however, instead of giving him The Look and The Word, I tried a new tactic: The Explanation.
“Well, each of these mugs serves a specific purpose,” I began. “Some are for morning coffee, others are for afternoon tea. Within those categories, they are further subdivided into mugs for perked coffee or instant coffee, mugs for black tea, mugs for green tea. Of course, if it’s chai tea in the morning, it’s a certain mug, the one that matches my yoga mat since that’s what I’m doing when I drink that tea, BUT if it’s chai tea in the afternoon, I use that tall brown mug there...”
By now, my husband’s eyes had glazed over and he had this strange half-smile on his face.
“You’re doing a great job, honey,” he murmured before stumbling off, shaking his head as though there was some strange buzzing sound inside it.
I looked down at the mug in my hand. It was dark blue, picked up at a pottery shop on the Island many summers ago during a day trip with my parents. What a shame my husband walked away so soon. Every one of my two dozen mugs had a story and I would have gladly shared each one with him, over a pot of blueberry tea...which goes in the dark blue mug.
