Happy Mug

We all have them. Those little things, rituals, we do throughout the day that bring us little bits of happiness. Some seem silly to an onlooker. Some are universal in their appeal. I'm pretty sure you all can relate to drinking a [enter hot beverage of choice] from a favorite mug. I say favorite with reservations, because looong have I called my big, blue, blue whale, man mug from the Seattle Aquarium my favorite. I mean, I have loved that thing for years. Seeing those electric eels on the trip when we got the mugs is one of my earliest memories. I say mugs, but sadly Whale's beige, other-sea-creature-that-I-forget-just-now brother met an untimely demise, smashing to pieces after falling inches off a death-defying coffee table, almost certainly at my hand. Since high school I said that blue mug was going to be my something blue on my wedding day until I found out those things were supposed to be things you could wear while walking down the aisle. As Tomáš would say, shooooooooot. But back to the other mug at hand. Every time the word favorite even whispers across the lips of my mind as I'm rooting through the cupboard in a hopeful search, I feel a little like I'm betraying my blue mug. But just look at it. All of my favorite colors in one place, perfectly divided into happy polka dots lined up on white porcelain, which is written, as with most products here in Europe, in six languages on the bottom. When I worked as a diet clerk at a hospital in Missoula, there was one little old lady who used to call up repeatedly and ask for a porcelain cup to drink her coffee from instead of the plastic ones routinely sent with food trays. And can I just say, I feel your pain, little lady. I mean, drinking hot beverages from plastic mugs is not unlike mild torture. Drinking from paper disposables is bad enough, but it has its place. Walking down Higgins Avenue, to be exact, while one of the following is going on: farmers market, Homecoming day parade or a late,warm summer night. If I have a mug obsession, I come by it honestly. My mom is to cute mugs as Imelda Marcos is to shoes. And I completely understand her. My mom, that is, not Imelda Marcos. Mugs are dangerous because they are inexpensive and worse, they are practical. But they practically fill up her house faster than you can say Goodwill run. I also used to have a dish problem. Between my penchant for second-handing, uncanny knack for finding the most adorable eat-ware in any given place and my obsession with going to Butte, Montana, I ended up with, well, Imelda Marcos' closet. And these sorts of collections know only one cure. To move somewhere where you can't take it with you. Tomáš didn't believe me when I said I could feel the difference between drinking from porcelain and drinking from regular ceramic mugs, and now I kind of wish he still didn't. Recently I've noticed my polka dot mug spending a little less time in the cupboard and a little more time in his grasp. Shooooooooot.  

Can't you just feel the smoothness?

What does your favorite mug look like?