A Slightly Odd Obsession

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.


Sorry To See You Go

My technophobic wife has taken an increasing shine to internet shopping.

Point, click, receive, wrap… Point, click, receive, wrap…

At this point, you might be thinking this is another husband-rant about all of the clicking activity and the bill that will come due in January. Well, that may be a subject for another post (I hope the title changes), but right now I’m trying to wrap my mind around the amount of email spam that her clicking has brought us. You see, we share an email account. Mistake? Maybe… but it has worked thus far.

Here is the problem, cleaning my inbox is the one thing I’m OCD about. I need it to be current or I lose focus. At work, I churn through emails faster than a Gopher on balsa-wood. If I can answer it immediately, it is gone. If it makes me mad, gone. If it is ambiguous and may not pertain to me, whoops, I hit delete. My inbox is squeaky-clean. The one at work, that is.

The shared inbox at home gets bogged down in December with order confirmations, shipping information, and advertisements. Oh the advertisements. Did I mention my wife is a technophobe? So, while she has mastered the checkout function of two hundred seventy-four websites, I can’t convince her that they won’t think any less of her if she unchecks the little box that says, “Would you like us to send you an ungodly amount of emails that are irrelevant, obnoxious, and likely to cause enmity between husband and wife?”

I should be working a second job to prepare for the aforementioned bill, but I spend my December trying to unsubscribe from every mailing list known to mankind. Only they lie to you when they allow you to hold the illusion that leaving them is an option. It’s a web of deceit – an impossibility. You cannot be removed from mailing lists. “You have been removed from our mailing list. We are sorry to see you go” is a lie from the bowels of the earth.


What the little button should say is, “Thank you for verifying your existence, I will now torture you every fifteen minutes with a blinking email reminder of your incompetence.”

After trying unsuccessfully to remove our email address from yet another list, I marched to the den, bowed out my chest, and sternly gave my wife an ultimatum!

“Either you learn to uncheck the subscribe button, or we are changing our email address!”


Women don’t like ultimatums.


Of course, our email address remains the same and though wounded and alone, I am off to fight a MailChimp.