Please Don't Use My Coffee Cup!

Did you ever have one little thing that you want to keep just for yourself? One little, seemingly insignificant thing that you don’t want to, or have to, share? Something nobody else should use or break or leave hidden away for weeks? That special little something you’ve been trying to find since last weekend, and it mysteriously appears on the floor of the car—rolling out and wedging itself between the brake and accelerator when you come to a sudden stop? Don’t deny it. We all have our strange little quirks, and this is one of mine. It bothers me and on a particularly bad day, it can be infuriating. To me, this is something sacred and not meant to be community property. And if I’ve asked it once, I’ve asked it a thousand times:

Where in God’s name is my coffee cup? After all, there must be thirty other cups to choose from. I’m not even including the pretty Irish dishes that belonged to my mother and that nobody is ever, ever allowed to touch (it’s not even worth trying because I’m pretty sure there is some Irish curse on them to scare people away). I’m referring to the everyday cups, an eclectic collection that we have: pretty floral Noritake cups, cornflower yellow and hunter green Fiestaware; souvenir mugs from Sea World, the Getty Museum, Las Vegas and the Golden Gate Bridge. Vertical stripes, horizontal stripes, psychedelic swirly cups, and polka dots; mugs with monograms, cartoon characters, and various radio station, business and fundraising logos.

There are travel mugs with lids and engraved crystal Irish Coffee mugs, along with a few delicate cups that invite the occasional smart ass to stick a pinky finger out when drinking. If you want to look quite proper and truly mimic the Queen, throw on an atrocious hat and hug an empty purse tightly to your chest, while you delicately sip (not slurp) from your dainty cup. For the burly, plaid-shirt wearing, lumberjack-type man (for obvious reasons, I picture him without a full beard), there are the sturdy ceramic mugs that require more effort to pick up, especially when full. We don’t discriminate in this house; the mugs hail from all over the world and are made in the USA, China, Japan, China, Ireland, China, Mexico, and last but not least, China. Of all of these cups, not one is particularly beautiful or meaningful, and they all are easily replaceable. Except of course, for my precious and beloved cup.

So what is it about my special cup—or cups (okay, I have at least five that I love), that entices a few certain people (who shall remain nameless, but are between the ages of 15 and 19) to claim them as their own? It’s not as though they don’t have their own to choose from. When I ask I get the usual responses: -What’s the big deal? –Sorry, I didn’t notice. –Sorry, I forgot. –Sorry, it looks like mine. –We’re all family, right? –Sorry, I know my first name doesn’t start with G, but to me the G stands for Gangsta (Really, that was the answer).

It bugs me. One of my cherished drinking vessels, or chalices, as I like to think of them, has my initial on it. That’s it, just my initial with a little swirly design and some fleur de lis. It’s simple and pretty, and more importantly, it’s mine…and should never be confused with belonging to anybody else, because nobody else in this house can claim that monogram. Unfortunately, I think it’s not going to be with me much longer, as it is constantly being used by a guy who likes to tap and drum and at some point, it’s going to be broken. Another mug I love first entered my life in 1981 when my oldest brother had been out of college for awhile. He bought similar mugs for my sister and me. It’s a cute little aerial scene of a farm, with an old-fashioned car, a dude in a dress and an airplane that appears to be smiling. I love it and until recently it was blemish free; now it has a chip and a crack in the handle. Again, not long for this world, as my mother would say.

My third cup is a pretty blue and white Lenox cup given to me about five years ago by my Irish-by-marriage friend Jo. This is the one I use when I want to play the part of the Queen and stick out my pinky. That’s not the only time I use it, but it adds to the joy of using it when I’m playing the role (I have no love for the Queen…to be discussed at a later date). Jo’s cup is lovely and not for everyday use really…and that it is third on my list by no means indicates that it is not a treasured and sacred chalice, because it is all that and more. Then there is a colorful, striped cup. I don't remember where I got it, but I love it and I hate it when I see somebody else using it. I'm actually resentful. And finally, the heavy blue cup with the caterpillar/butterfly quote…another gift I received at a significant time in my life. This one is a sturdier mug, although I doubt a lumberjack would be man enough to drink from it with that quote on it. I love the mug and the quote and I wouldn’t let a dirty, smelly lumberjack borrow it anyway...at least not until he cleaned himself up.

So what the hell is my point typing all of this nonsense about coffee cups? I have no point other than this: I don’t need big, expensive things to be happy. I’m perfectly happy with my cups and more than anything, I appreciate the spirit in which they were given. But I swear on the Holy Bible, if I get up at 4:30 tomorrow and don’t have my choice of which one to use as I get ready for work, someone will get a rude awakening. If I find one in the corner of a bedroom, or next to a computer with cookie crumbs dried to the inside, or under—yes, under—a coffee table, there will be hell to pay.