the three mugs

In which the author prepares to leave his home of twenty years and reminisces about his past with the help of three, rather unremarkable coffee mugs.

Having garnered a position as a student at a well-to-do university somewhere across the Atlantic, I found myself in the prickly dilemma of having to pack my entire life into two, under-50-lbs suitcases (thank you very much Air Canada) and leaving for England.

Unfortunately, for someone as ‘hobbity’ and fond of comforts as me, knowing what to pack and what not to pack is a monumental task.

Take, for example, my mug situation. Every avid coffee or tea drinker knows that the selection of the proper mug is key.

But actually, a mug means so much more than the delicious caffeinated goodness it may contain. Oh yes. A good mug symbolizes comfort. It represents a good home. And above all else, a good mug tells you a lot about the person holding it.

But with very limited room and weight for my possessions, I have to pick and choose.

Thus, it’s essential that I pick the right kind of mug. A mug that evokes poetic images of my hometown. A mug that subtly hints of my childish and rumbustious upbringing. That pains me with twangs of unrequited love and past heartbreak. And of promising futures.

I have four of them. Four mugs, each with truly revealing, utterly riveting stories. Each symbolizing a different aspect of what I’d like to bring to my new home.

Now one of these mugs — which, if you’re the attentive sort, has been a constant companion throughout this blog (look up), I’ve already decided to bring. And the story, though certainly of interest and certainly revealing, is one I’m not too eager to share. Let’s leave it at that.

And so without further ado, I present to you the three contestants.

The First Mug: Mickey and Pluto

This mug, which has a cartoon picture of Mickey Mouse and the lovable Pluto dozing off was a gift from my parents for one of my birthdays. Knowing them, it was probably bought at a second-hand store.

Of the four mugs, it’s the most unexciting, and uninteresting one.

But it’s a symbol of the warm comforts of home. It makes me remember all those times I spent sipping coffee at home, studying diligently, while constantly being peppered with intrusive interruptions by my mom.

Roz Doyle, from the TV show Frasier once asked, “Why is it so easy to love your family, but so hard to like them?” She hit the question right on the nose, and I’m not sure what the answer is, or even if there is one.

It’s not a mature mug, of course. It’s a childish and homely. But it does brings back comforts of Ottawa and of my suburban home. And that’s why I like it.

The Second Mug: Hillcrest High School

One day, when I’m lying on my death bed, I’m going to revisit the fondest, most memorable times of life. And high school, well, high school will most definitely be on that list.

To me, it’s not strange to admit that my final few years in high school are considered the high points of my existence.

I had everything. I had friends from all types and backgrounds — some of whom have continued to form the core members of my troupe. I was close to many of the teachers, and able to laugh and joke with them as I did with all my friends.

I was academically at the top of my game — in a time where you could be at the top of your game. Homework and school projects were always an output for my creative brand of humour and satire, with many presentations breaking out in song and other variations of silliness.

I was an avid athlete, competitively trained in track and field and at one point, National Capital champion in the triple jump. In gym class, I got to run around like an idiot, playing dodgeball, basketball, or whatever was offered on that particular day.

I was in love. Infatuated and silly. Hopelessly romantic.

But that’s what teenage love is all about, n’est-ce pas?

I was naive and still possessing boundless energy and that youthful outlook on life kids enjoy but never fully appreciate. Most of all, I was coming out of my shell. Sure, I was still awkward, but I was learning. Learning fast.

It’s all gone downhill since then. Not in the typical sense, of course. In many ways, I’m more successful than I ever was. I’m older, smarter, and have a pair of documents that proves to the world I have enough academic training to put the average girl to sleep on a date.

But I’ve lost a lot of the magic.

I’ve lost that balanced, jubilant lifestyle I once enjoyed.

That’s what this mug means to me.

The Third Mug: Overbrook Public School

Almost nobody can tell you anything about Overbrook Public School.

That’s because there is no Overbrook Public School. At least not anymore. It was shut down half-a-decade ago.

But even when there was an Overbrook Public School, it was hardly noticeable.

The school taught kindergarten through grade 6 — which was unusual since most primary schools that bother going up to grade 6 are capable of accommodating grade 7 and 8 students as well. Tiny was not the right word to describe Overbrook.

It was minuscule.

It had about 300 or 400 students and a handful of teachers. Everybody knew everybody and that was that. The gymnasium, I still remember vividly (but not all that fondly); the roof was perhaps 12 feet high, which meant the basketball nets where 7 or 8 feet off the ground. You literally had to lob the ball horizontally, otherwise it would bounce off the roof.

No wonder our school was always creamed in basketball.

Me? I was there from grade 4 to 6, but only because the school offered a unique French Immersion program. The thing is, nothing really happened when I was a student there. I was a pretty normal, run-of-the-mill kid. I was quiet, bright, athletic, but not unusually so. Girls thought I was awkward and a total nerd and geek (oh, how things have changed…), but at that age, they still had cooties and I had little interest in the fairer sex.

So in the end, that’s what this mug — a prize for my Grade 6 speech on Amelia Earhart — represents: my humble, quiet, and terribly unexciting past.

Your see, I have high hopes for some of my friends and acquaintances. I think some of them will go on to lead wonderfully successful lives. Make buckets of cash. Marry beautiful men and women. And then invite me to summer in their waterfront homes and lend me keys to their flashy sports cars.

But wherever we are, whatever we may do, it’s important to remember that most of us come from humble beginnings. Some of us attended tiny, unremarkable schools, and, at least initially, led wholly unremarkable lives.

Because, really, it’s all about the journey.

I know what you’re thinking.

You’re thinking, “Who is that unbeareably handsome guy off to the right?”

Look at those eyes!

Those brown, mellowy eyes that just ooze intelligence and…what is that? A kind of gentle weariness and humorous melancholy?

Maybe. But either way, I bet you were so enamored by those eyes, you didn’t even question my use of the word ‘mellowy’.

And that slump!

Oooh baby. That casual slump that somehow manages to tread the fine line between downright coolness and hopeless slack. It’s a slump that says, “Baby, James Dean s’got nothin’ on me”.

What about that smirk?

A subtle smirk that’s probably maddening to most people if it weren’t so suave. That’s the kind of smirk that’ll get you the ladies, I bet. Or get you beaten up in the 8th grade.

But surely that smirk reminds you of someone?

It’s me, duh!

I love it!

Is this what models feel like when a photographer takes their picture and, through a combination of makeup and photoshop produces a product worthy of a magazine cover?

It sorta looks like me, but not really.

Because for one thing, I hardly look that good in real life.

In any case, the reason I look so good is due to my friend and acquaintance, the talented artist, Captain Slug, who grudgingly put his artistic skills to the test on my behalf.

I was sorta hoping for tights and a cape, but I suppose that suit doesn’t look half bad.

second wind

Later in high school, he went through more women than I through textbooks.

And I assure you, that was no small feat.

There was this girl way, way back in Grade 8 that I fancied. Sort of.

But you know how trivial adolescent love is — it’s a truly turbulent time, what with swirling hormonal mood shifts, awkward hair, squeaky pubescent voices and bad, bad, bad posture.

She was cute. Short, brown eyes, shoulder length brown hair, itty bitty hands, and a button nose. Almost the very definition of sickly cuteness.

I’d often stop by her locker in the morning and sorta squeak out a measly excuse for a conversation.

“Sup,” I’d say.

“Not much,” she’d say.

Then we’d sort of grin at each other and go our separate ways.

No long deep conversations on abstract math, no lustful eye-gazing, not even a bit of innocent flirtation.

I was young. It was hard enough to walk without tripping over my own shoes.

So Christmas comes, and she surprises me with a small gift. Which was totally out of the blue because we were locker buddies in spirit. Certainy not the kind of friends to exchange gifts.

It was a really cute present: a packet of a few dozen pennies individually hand-wrapped in red Christmas paper. The story of why I had such a public obsession with pennies is so vague to me now that there’s no real point in trying to remember it all.

The point is I liked pennies.

She gave me pennies. A lot of them. Individually wrapped.

And this, I reasoned to my young, naive self — could only mean one thing: She wanted to jump my eager little bones.

Obviously.

So school lets out and I deviously find her number. You know, through a friend of a friend of a friend. I’m not sure what outrageous lies I had to tell my friends to solicit her number without warranting suspicion, but I’m sure my hastily fictionalized excuses were entirely noble and pure at heart.

“Hi, is this Sally?”, I said.

“Sure is,” she said.

“It’s Phil,” I said.

“Hi Phil,” she said.

She was cheery. And the fact that she didn’t say, “How the fuck did you get my number, you perv?” pushed me onwards.

“Iwuzondring…uh…if-yud liket’go… [muffled cough] movie w’me?”, I gasped in one entirely strangled breath.

Smooth, Phil. Real smooth.

Right. But this is where it all gets blurry. If you were preparing yourselves for some amusing climax, I’m afraid you’re going to be severely disapointed.

It was a bust.

From my vague recollection, she agreed, though somewhat unenthusiastically. We then carried out an unusually protracted game of dueling datebooks which consisted of me: serving possible days for our coveted event and her: clumsily returning sympathetic excuses.

Oh, but what a tumultuous phone call it was. Minutes later, I slumped, exhausted and sweaty into my chair, mopped my forehead, and pondered the final decision: we’d both agreed — well, it was more 70/30 — to wait a week or so until school started again, after which we’d find a more suitable date.

It never came.

But you knew that already, didn’t you?

Only a few days after school started, I found out that one of the schoolyard kids — an asshole, even at that age — had asked her out and they were now an exclusive couple, whatever that meant.

Which you know, kind of sucked.

I would have appreciated a bit of an advanced warning. I don’t think she spoke to me much after that whole fiasco.

It didn’t really matter, of course. They eventually parted ways a whole 3 weeks after and he was off oogling another girl before I had a chance for a second wind. Later in high school, he went through more women than I through textbooks.

And I assure you, that was no small feat.

I did hear about Sally from a friend a few years ago. Apparently, she’d put off plans for university after high school with the intent of moving in with her amourous partner.

And here I am. 7 years later.

I don’t think I’ve ever look at a penny the same way since the Christmas of 1999.

Lately, I’ve been making mistakes. A lot of them. I’ve been watching my life spin in a million different directions, and I’ve noticed everything falling apart. Slowly, but surely.

I’ve been watching my grades fall. At this point there’s not much hope of repeating history and claiming the third and final Governor General’s Academic Medal. My research has been sidetracked by my academics, as well as my bids for graduate schools and graduate funding.

It doesn’t help that I’ve grown weary of school. I’ve been skipping classes I shouldn’t have skipped. I’ve frankly disowned the mathematical community at large and am turning into more of a recluse than ever before.

It’s hard. Because you see, without my academics, I’m nothing. Nada. Zip. Ziltch.

I’m known for my academic ability. I’m known not as a top student, but the top student. And if I give that position up, then what am I? Would I be just another one of a thousand faceless students?

If I can’t hang on to the only thing that makes me me, then what does that mean?

has-been  /ˈhæzˌbɪn/
–noun

1. a person or thing that is no longer effective, successful, popular, etc.

2. Phil. Loser.

I guess I’m starting to feel the effects of finishing undergrad so fast. I wish I was back in High School. I wish I could go to parties and get drunk. I wish I could just sit in the park and talk with a lovely girl I fancied, instead of sitting home alone at 4 in the morning, trying to understand Topology, Dynamical Systems, or whatever.

Oh, how I envy you guys.

This weekend, the beautiful Rhys bravely recorded herself while she whispered sweet nothings into my ear. By sweet nothings, I actually mean a vile joke about a penguin and his ice cream misfortunes. And by my ear, I mean the ears of all her listeners. Whatever.

Right-O. It got me thinking. I don’t have much to offer myself — no animal jokes, sadly — but wouldn’t it be nice if I could record a little something on my violin?

Never again.

Within half an hour, I had managed to take one of my favourite pieces for violin and piano: the famous Meditation from Thais, an opera by Jules Massennet, and rip it to shreds.

Creaky notes, bad rhythm, throw in a howling dog and an obese elephant, and you’ll only have scratched the surface of my dismal performance.

I only included about a tenth of the piece because beyond that point you’ll start hearing some strange things. Things like the booing of my neighbours, the sound of rotten eggs pounding against my window, and my own eloquent cussing.

I swear, it sounds better with the piano. And with a better violinist.

And because at this point I can’t possibly humiliate myself any further, I’ve decided let you guys have a listen to how the piece should actually sound at the hands of a competent musician.

It’s truly wonderful, n’est-ce pas? But the bastard gets a full orchestra backing him up — honestly, nobody can sound shitty with that much musical support.

Give me a fuckin’ triangle, and I’ll own this piece.

For those of you who are interested, I played this piece about half a decade ago at the Kiwanis Music Festival in Ottawa, accompanied by my lovely sister on piano. I took first place and also won a musical scholarship that year.

Sadly, it’s all gone downhill from then.