Well, I've been thinking about my kitchen accoutrements again.
This is my mug. She has been with me, every morning, for almost 5 years now. I have known her - held her between my greedy, needy paws - longer than I have known my husband. Like a hockey player approaching the Stanley Cup tournament, I feel superstitious posting about her - I worry that she will crack under the pressure. What if tomorrow she breaks because today I gossiped about her?
She looks benign enough (I mean, polka dots?) - but this robin's egg colored CHALICE - this venerable gives-me-the-shakes-when-I-see-it caffeine delivery vehicle is my morning muse. I wake - and - knowing she is not far, am willing to move - I schlep out of my dreadful, insomniac, pinch-faced haze - grabbing a sweatshirt, turning off the AC - hoping to sweat Tony from his slumber - I shouldn't be the only sleepless, suffering, sack of...well, anyways.
I drag toward the kitchen, questionably conscious - arm raising forward, pointer-finger beginning to stretch into extended position - almost there - PUSH BUTTON - whirrrr, tick, tick - drizzzzzzzzle. The espresso shot begins. Let the crema ensue. I shall prevail. I am woman, hear me snore! Add the vanilla syrup, steam the milk, froth excessively just because I can, pour into espresso shots, stir gently. Too hot, but sip anyways - ooooooh, baby, come to momma. I am RISEN. I cup both freezing paws around this gloriously over-sized mug - it fits perfectly and burns my skin a little. Bring it, mug-o-lovah.
Sipping and savoring, I contemplate important global considerations, such as, how did I ever survive before my super-automatic espresso machine? Does Tony sleep late just to stick it to me? What was my dog dreaming about? Why am I "blog-thinking" in the middle of the night? Why is that dude at the bead store always such a jack to me? Is it because he is a dude, and working at a bead store? Why do I have 28 mugs (I counted) when I use just this one? What is that about?
Um...you might be thinking...OCD, perhaps? Good point. I'll uh...look into that...again. I think it goes back to my obsession with kitchen accoutrements and somehow - artistically and aesthetically and experientially - certain objects just hook me. In other words, we bond - me and this mug. It's my one true mug.
So, if you come to my house and see this gorgeous hunk of mugoliciousness - you should know not to use it. Or, touch it. Or, if you do touch it - then, touch it 7 times, put it away twice - then turn the espresso machine on and off, x 3.
