I woke up early on Saturday, though admittedly not as early as the Carpenter. He needs to greet the sun. I need to slowly slip into the day. But I love that he leaves me freshly brewed coffee.
On this morning he set my favourite morning mug, the terracotta one with a cream-coloured capital K painted on it, next to it the coffee carafe. A sweet gesture of love. That guy. What a sweetheart.
I poured hot coffee into my favourite morning mug and headed to the garden to enjoy it. The Carpenter met me at the patio doors and gently kissed my forehead. A sweet gesture of love. That guy. What a sweetheart.
But as we moved apart, he reached his hand out as if to accept the mug of coffee I was carrying, as if I was delivering it to him, as if that’s something I would do (as if, snort). Naturally, I drew the mug closer to myself, silently saying, “mine, don’t touch.”
We exchanged befuddled glares of confusion. He looked offended. I am confident I mirrored that back to him. Why would he think I’m bringing him coffee delivered in my favourite morning mug (or at all)? Didn’t he already drink half the pot in his own mug? Awkward pause.
The Carpenter looked down at the full mug, then up at me. His face went from insult to guilt, to righteous indignation so fast, it was like clouds blowing across the sun. A crime had been committed and the admission of guilt was swift. He had stolen my favourite morning mug clearly marked with a capital K, as in Kelly, not Carpenter, for his own coffee consumption. Guilty as charged.
Yet he was unapologetic. Seems all of his mugs were dirty, or missing in the garage. So, he just grabbed whatever mug he saw first that morning and claimed it. Like it was his. Like he didn’t have his own. Like there wasn’t an entire cupboard full of unassuming, non-capital-K coffee mugs. Don’t get me started on his sense of entitlement. The audacity. The gall. The humanity of it all.
We have more mugs in our kitchen cupboard than we do any other dish or utensil in our home. Each one is personally claimed by a member of the family. The Carpenter has two Seattle Seahawks mugs. He wouldn’t dare share those. Ever. It’s understood.
I have two favourite mugs for coffee and two for tea. It is important to differentiate. The hand-crafted dark blue mug etched with a turtle is my Mother Earth mug. That means only this mother can drink out of it (bonus points if you read that with the intended tone of the reference). The other mug is the aforementioned terracotta beauty. Tea is served up in my polar bear mug or, if it’s a been a really tough day, the dark green fat-bottomed loon mug, purchased in Bobcaygeon.
The Carpenter calmly removed my mug from my hand and walked away. Just. Like. That. I was dumbfounded. Insulted. Hurt.
Minutes later he returned with my dark green fat-bottomed loon mug full of fresh, hot coffee because it was clearly a tough morning for Kelly with a capital K and it was clearly the Carpenter’s fault.
A sweet gesture of love. That guy. What a sweetheart.
