I have a seemingly valid but probably not really complaint.
Who decided the standard size of coffee mugs should be 8oz?!
8 dainty ounces.
Does 8 oz. of caffeine actually make those of us in the over 35 demographic functional humans?! And who wants to make multiple trips to the coffee pot/tea kettle if it doesn’t?!
IT’S LIKE HAVING TO GO BACK TO THE CAR FOR GROCERIES!
NO ONE WANTS TO DO THAT!
Maybe this is because I drink tea instead of coffee. But it IS strong, black tea. Full of caffeine to help prevent murder, maintaining friendships, and my job.
8 oz. simply does not cut it.
Because I, like Cardi B, prefer big Mack Trucks. Well, at least when it comes to my tea mugs.
So can we agree that the new standard should be a girthy 12 oz?
Anyone? Everyone? Mug manufacturers?
Also polar vortex. It was -31 here last night at 11pm. WHEN DID I MOVE TO THE ARTCIC?! WHERE ARE MY POLAR BEARS AND ARCTIC FOXES AND SEALS?!
WHERE ARE MY NARWHALS?!
I don’t think I have stepped out of my house in days. And as much as I joke/complain, I do worry about people who aren’t staying warm– those with homes and those without.
I’m looking at you, Texas. I have intel that some of your citizens haven’t had heat ALL DAY.
I want to write that I can’t wait for life to become boring again. And stop being so eventful. Historical. Frustrating. And heart breaking.
But I don’t want to go back to how things were. I hope we are able to find a better, new normal.
Going back to how it was isn’t going to erase racism, white supremacy, and/or the patriarchy. That doesn’t help or serve anyone.
Speaking of the patriarchy, I noticed a zippered pouch on the counter today that I’d never seen before. It was hanging out among Dad’s many, MANY things.
It’s white with monstera(?) leaves that have been outlined in blue.
Clearly not my father’s.
Turns out, it was my grandmother’s. She passed away back in 2004.
It was odd to go through her things. These fragments of her life that diminish bit by bit each year. I saw her handwriting again after I don’t know how many years. Her insurance cards. The scrap of paper with long forgotten family cell phone numbers.
What gets me most is finding that ring. When she passed, there wasn’t a chance for us to sort through her belongings because my uncle had moved into her house around the time she was admitted to the nursing home. Supposedly, some of what was in there had already been taken/hauled off before she died.
We still don’t know what happened to her wedding ring.
But I remember Grandma’s Avon rings more than her actual wedding ring (I think it was a gold band?). That was all I wanted of hers- an Avon ring. I never expected to find one of them almost 20 years later.
But life is funny that way, isn’t it?
I used to wonder why I hold onto the belongings of my grandparents. It won’t bring them back. But it brings me peace while keeping them alive in some small way.
Even if it’s a faint whisper in the background. Like the buffalo plaid hat and insulated jacket hanging from a coat rack. The stack of gardening books in the living room. The bolero hanging on the wall. Handmade rugs resting on my bedroom floor. And a small plant pouch tucked inside the drawer of an antique dresser.
They are part of my story. An inheritance.
More posts to come.