One more mug

No, not this one.

This one.
Way back when, in the olden days, I wrote my first essay and sent it to the Globe and Mail to see what would happen. Lo and behold, they decided to publish it. They say write what you know, so I wrote about the evils of Christmas newsletters and what mine would say if I allowed myself free rein to write about my year with three teenagers, one mid-life dentist and the assorted animals we call pets on a good day and a scourge on the others. Mostly based in reality and firmly tongue-in-cheek, I described various gifts over the years and one of them was this mug you see here. My son bought it. He said, and I quote, "it was like 15 bucks marked down to 10 bucks marked down to 3 bucks and I hope you like it because I can't return it."

My husband adopted this poor little mug and it because His Mug at the cottage. Every weekend, he'd make our (Starbucks extra-bold dark French roast) coffee (I know, I'm a cliche, but I need my strong dark coffee like a lovah) and he came to love this homely little caffeine transporter.

Then tragedy struck. One morning last summer, after a violent struggle with an intruder wielding a baseball bat (okay, that's not true, but it makes the story so much more dramatic than saying he tripped) my husband broke The Mug. And he was crushed.

"My mug...it's...gone...I'm so sad."

This would have been the end of my tragic tale had it not been for our local flea market. It's an event that takes place every week in the summer, close to our cottage. It is a chance for the cottage-bound to get away from the lake and poke around for All Things Unnecessary. The clientele are a mixed bunch - bikers, small town locals, out-of-towners, a bit of everything including lots of folks with more tattoos than teeth. There are higher end antiques, but mostly it resembles a giant garage sale with old rusty pumps, auto parts, pinball machines, furniture, china, ducks (yes, live ducks) and pretty much anything and everything one is looking for. This is where I bought some of my giant cups and saucers, like this one:

(Again, my sister insists this is a soup bowl, but she would be wrong. Just because it's the size of my head, doesn't mean I can't use it for coffee. Here's a shot with a so-called "normal" cup and saucer, though I don't know who decided this size was normal.)

So last summer, as I frolicked amongst the ducks and silverware and Fiesta plates, I stumbled across a big table of random junk - old door knobs, dirty plastic containers, cigarette tins and whatnot. When what to my wondering eyes should appear, but two mugs almost new (and no tiny reindeer.)

They were the mugs, the same ones. Brand new. And they cost me 2 bucks for the pair.

My husband got one for his birthday last week. The other is a backup. In case there is another intruder with a bat.