A Slightly Odd Obsession

March 4, 2015.Reading time 4 minutes.

I have an admission to make. It is slightly embarrassing, this thing. I had an inkling that something lay festering beneath the surface. Year upon year of building desire should have been a clue. Until last weekend, I had no idea it had become as prolific as recent evidence has shown it to be. I have an obsession – nothing that should hold legal ramifications or moral apprehension, but an obsession nonetheless.

It started innocently enough, as most obsessions do. A look… a secret longing… a caress that eventually leads to some form of grip and holding. A yearning – it forces me to spend hard-earned money to acquire the object of my desire. Hot, steamy, satisfying! I have to have them. I am not tied to one body style, I love all shapes and sizes. I love them for what is inside and the shallow portion of me loves them for their outward appearance as well.

Travel mugs. I love them nearly as much as the coffee they contain. I confess that I can’t have just one. I need many. My lovely wife discovered this in cleaning out the pantry. My collection seems to have grown wildly over the years. They were stuffed in every nook and cranny of the little closet, taking up too much room.

Something had to give, so she said.

But what do I do? Do I let go of some? Donate or dispose? Is there a place to recycle crazy obsessions? Does anyone else have a stupid collection like this or is it just me? I would be lying if I said they all served a purpose. Actually, some have never been used – a few just looked appealing in the store but were either impractical or not functionally optimal.

For instance, why would any company make a travel mug that doesn’t fit in a standard size cup holder? It’s the cruelest of jokes because the consumer brings it home, fills it lovingly with the finest java only to have it spill all over the floorboard of the car when rounding the corner a block from home.

What do you do with the one so poorly designed that my nose gets in the way of taking a full drink? I’m no Cyrano De de Bergerac, either. Normal nose – yet after the third sip, I have to crane my neck so far back just to get a drink that I am no longer able to see the road. I’m too old for that kind of exercise.

Note the big tankard in back left. Yes, I Like Big Mugs and I Cannot Lie. But seriously, it holds so much coffee that it is cold by the time you get halfway through.

LW said some of them had to go. I think she was jealous of my obsession – she didn’t like the thought of me holding so many other things in high regard. I begged for a little corner of the pantry to hold my collection, but she pointed to the Mickey Mouse waffle iron, popcorn machine, coffee grinder, and a couple of other little-used appliances I have bought on a whim that take up valuable storage space.

And so, I reluctantly pared down my coffee mug collection. I threw out a couple and donated the others in the hopes that someone else would appreciate them.

The irony of this whole situation is that I have an extremely short commute.

The Poison Pickle

February 4, 2015.Reading time 4 minutes.

I am about finished being the lunch-packer for my two high school daughters. They will be most pleased when mother is again putting her loving touch on things.

One is extremely analytical. She lifts her lunch box before leaving home for a weight check and can tell if I shorted her one Dorito. I have no idea how she does it.

The other? Well, she’s a target.

Let me explain. My eldest went to college and left a void. While incredibly intelligent, she is a trusting and gullible soul, which leaves lots of room for good-natured hazing. And I always say, “If you can’t haze your own kids, who can you haze?” Our youngest is going through enough and the analytical child is dubious of everything; which leaves our little freshman hypochondriac to fill the void.

Enter the stray pickle.

I started putting a pickle in a baggie and adding it to her lunch the other day. She loves pickles. After a couple of pickle surprises, I got this text, “Are you sure those pickles are good? I checked the date and they expired in August.”

My response, “Sure they’re good. That’s what pickling does. Those things will be good for fifty years.”

Then, an idea began fermenting like that old jar in the back of the fridge. It’s time for some fun! I carefully planned my ruse, waited a couple of hours to set up my trap, and fired this off, “You didn’t eat that pickle did you?”

Nothing. I could picture her sitting in English Lit wondering what that could mean. Five minutes passed and I sent another.

“I read something about pickle poisoning that scares me…”

“WHAT????” along with several wide-eyed emojis. 😨😨😨😨😨😨

“Sorry, gotta go into a meeting. Back in an hour.”

Pickle

An hour. What would she do in an hour? I giggled at my desk wondering if she would look up pickle poisoning on the internet, the ultimate source of truth. That’s been covered! I had already entered a finely crafted Wikipedia article detailing diagnosis, treatment, and prognosis. I even created a Facebook support group that garnered two sad members almost immediately. Yes, I could visualize my third-born wandering aimlessly into the woods where I waited to pull the net that would lift her into my trap. This was going to be awesome!

After the hour expired, I sent this one, “You okay? No swelling or tingling in your hands or feet?”

A long lapse made me wonder if there really was something wrong with the lunch I’d packed. There is nothing worse than sitting beside a baited trap while no unsuspecting quarry wanders past. It seemed like forever before she replied.

“You gonna drive me to ballet?” she finally asked.

“Yes… if you are still okay by then.”

“Oh, I texted Meredith and she told me not to believe anything you said.” 😛😛😛😛

Crap! All that work for nothing. I forgot to cover that base and left a gaping hole in my plan. I should be pleased that she went to her sister for support unlike the two souls I left groping in the dark when I shut down their Facebook page. I should be. But I’m not. Freddie Mercury might have wanted someone to love – I just want someone to haze and I’m running out of victims.