There are certain things in a household that a man should be able to count on. Hot water in the shower, a reasonably functional refrigerator, and the continued availability of his favorite coffee mug. I don’t think that’s asking too much. I’m not demanding a private chef or a heated driveway. I just want to walk into my kitchen in the morning, reach into the cupboard, and find the mug I’ve been drinking coffee out of for the better part of six years. Unfortunately, that last requirement has become increasingly difficult since Pandora developed what I can only describe as a suspicious interest in my personal drinkware.
It started innocently enough. Last Tuesday, I found her sitting at the kitchen table with my mug in her hands, reading something on her phone. I recognized it immediately. It’s a large, dark blue ceramic mug with a slightly crooked handle and a tiny chip near the bottom that doesn’t affect its usefulness. I’ve had it so long that I know exactly how much coffee to pour without looking. Pandora has at least eight perfectly good mugs of her own, including one with flowers on it that she specifically asked me not to use because it was special. Apparently, the rules governing special mugs only apply in one direction.
I asked her why she was using mine, and she looked at me as though I’d interrupted an important international negotiation. “Because it was clean,” she said. That seemed reasonable until I opened the cupboard and discovered that six other mugs were also clean. I pointed this out, perhaps a little too enthusiastically, and she smiled. “Hal, it’s a mug.” Technically, she was correct. But the Mona Lisa is technically a painting, and you don’t see people borrowing that whenever they need something to hang over the fireplace.
The next morning, I found the mug in the sink with a faint brown ring around the inside. Pandora had apparently rinsed it out after drinking tea, which she considered perfectly acceptable because she hadn’t put milk in it. I explained that rinsing and washing were two entirely different activities, much like waving at a car and actually cleaning it. She informed me that I was welcome to wash it myself. I did, of course, but I couldn’t help noticing the way she smiled when she said it. It was the smile of someone who knew exactly how much trouble a coffee mug could cause.
John Mercer wandered into the kitchen while I was examining the mug under the overhead light. He lives with us, so he’s become accustomed to finding me investigating things that other people would simply put in the dishwasher. “What are we looking at?” he asked. I showed him the ring and explained the situation. He leaned forward, inspected it for approximately half a second, and said, “Looks like tea.” I told him that wasn’t the point. “Then what’s the point?” he asked. I had an answer, but it required more background information than he seemed willing to receive before breakfast.
The situation escalated on Thursday when my mug disappeared entirely. I checked the cupboard, the dishwasher, and the sink. I even looked in the refrigerator, although I couldn’t have explained why if someone had asked. Pandora was getting ready for work, and when I questioned her, she said she hadn’t seen it. John was eating cereal at the counter and suggested that perhaps the mug had finally decided to leave home. I didn’t appreciate that. Six years of loyal service should count for something, and I wasn’t prepared to accept that my mug had simply walked out on me.
I was still searching when Mr Whiskers appeared from the hallway carrying something in his mouth. It was one of his little stuffed mice, which he deposited beside the refrigerator before looking up at me expectantly. I briefly considered whether he might have witnessed the disappearance. He’s an observant cat, particularly when someone is opening a cupboard that might contain treats. Unfortunately, his investigative assistance consisted of sitting on my foot and meowing until I fed him. I made a mental note that he was a terrible witness and an even worse detective.
Later that morning, Mrs Jenkins stopped by to return a baking dish she’d borrowed from Pandora. She’s our neighbor, a lovely woman who has somehow managed to remain cheerful despite knowing us. I mentioned the missing mug while she was standing in the doorway, mostly because I wanted an impartial opinion. She listened politely and then asked whether I’d checked the living room. I told her that I had, although I realized almost immediately that I’d only looked at the coffee table. “Sometimes things are right under our noses,” she said. It sounded like the sort of wisdom a person acquires after years of experience, and I took it seriously enough to search behind the sofa cushions.
By lunchtime, I had developed a theory. Pandora had been using my mug so frequently that she’d become attached to it, and now she was keeping it somewhere for her own exclusive use. I wasn’t accusing her of theft. That would have been ridiculous. We live together, and technically we share most of our possessions. But I did wonder whether she had quietly reassigned ownership without consulting the original owner. John listened to this explanation while making a sandwich. When I finished, he said, “You know, if you put this much effort into finding your car keys, we’d leave the house on time more often.”
That afternoon, Karen called me at work about something we were handling together. She’s a coworker, and although our conversations usually concern actual work, I mentioned the mug while we were waiting for a file to open. She laughed so hard that I had to move the phone away from my ear. “Maybe Pandora just likes your mug,” she suggested. I explained that liking a mug was perfectly understandable, but commandeering someone else’s favorite mug was a different matter. Karen told me to buy another one. I reminded her that she’d completely missed the point, which seemed to be happening with alarming frequency.
When I got home, Pandora was in the kitchen preparing dinner. John was sitting at the table, and Mr Whiskers was stationed beneath his chair, waiting for something edible to fall. I decided this was an appropriate moment to address the situation like a mature adult. I told Pandora that I wasn’t upset about the mug itself. I was concerned about the principle of the thing. She put down the spoon she was holding and asked, “Hal, have you been thinking about that mug all day?” I admitted that I’d devoted some time to the matter. John made a choking noise into his glass of water.
Pandora looked at me for a moment, then walked over to the cupboard above the coffee maker. She reached behind a row of drinking glasses and pulled out my dark blue mug. There it was, completely clean, sitting in a place I’d somehow overlooked during my extensive search. I stared at it. “Why was it back there?” I asked. She explained that she’d washed it that morning and put it away while rearranging the cupboard to make room for the larger bowls we’d bought over the weekend. She’d moved a few things around and hadn’t thought anything of it. The mystery that had occupied most of my Thursday was apparently the result of ordinary kitchen organization.
I was relieved, naturally, but I still had questions. “Why do you keep using it in the first place?” I asked. Pandora gave me a look that was almost affectionate. “Because it’s the best mug in the house, Hal. It’s big, the handle is comfortable, and it keeps my tea warm longer than the others.” I stood there for a moment, processing this information. After days of suspicion, I had finally uncovered the truth. She liked my mug for exactly the same reasons I liked it. There was no conspiracy, no secret agenda, and no attempt to undermine the established order of our kitchen. She simply had excellent taste.
John, who had been listening to the entire conversation, suggested that we establish a formal custody arrangement. “Hal gets it Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Pandora gets Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday. On Sunday, the mug rests.” Pandora burst out laughing. I told him that wasn’t helpful, although I had to admit it was more organized than our current system. He then offered to draw up a visitation schedule and asked whether the mug would be spending Christmas with my family. At that point, even I started laughing. It’s difficult to maintain a serious position when your roommate is discussing ceramic custody rights.
The matter might have ended there if Mr Whiskers hadn’t decided to involve himself. While the three of us were talking, he jumped onto an empty chair, stretched toward the table, and knocked John’s water glass over with one deliberate swipe of his paw. Water spread across the table, John leaped backward, and Pandora grabbed a dish towel. Mr Whiskers watched the commotion with the serene expression of an animal who had just demonstrated how little he cared about our household rules. I looked at the puddle, then at the cat, and realized that I’d spent three days worrying about a mug while the real troublemaker had been sitting in front of me the entire time.
Pandora eventually suggested a compromise. We’d keep sharing the blue mug, and whoever used it last would wash it properly and return it to the cupboard. That seemed fair, especially since I was beginning to suspect that continuing the argument might result in John purchasing a tiny calendar specifically for mug visitation. We finished dinner, cleaned up the kitchen, and settled into the living room. For the first time in days, I felt that order had been restored.
The following morning, I walked into the kitchen and found Pandora drinking tea from my mug again. She looked up, smiled, and held it out to me. “Want it?” she asked. I considered saying yes, just to establish that I still had the right. Instead, I reached into the cupboard and took one of her flowered mugs. She raised an eyebrow. “I thought you didn’t like that one.” I told her I was broadening my horizons. She laughed and went back to her tea.
I was halfway through my coffee when I noticed something interesting. Her flowered mug actually had a very comfortable handle. It was a little smaller than mine, but the shape was surprisingly pleasant to hold, and the coffee stayed warm longer than I’d expected. I turned it around in my hands, admiring the design. Pandora watched me for a few seconds before narrowing her eyes.
“Hal,” she said, “that’s my favorite mug.”
I looked down at it, then back at her. “It’s just a mug, Pandora.”
John nearly fell out of his chair.