My mom and I collected mugs for a while. She bought a lot more of them than I did because me being on Disability, the money did not go too far., I have some on my bookshelves and around.
There were some she had decorating the kitchen on hooks. When Alex came home, he kept breaking them, so I took some down.
This one I used last night was hers. I think I am amping up to do it again.
Sleep, who needs it?
Sometimes I dream of opening up a shop where coffee is served in mom’s mugs, and I pick a book after talking for a few minutes with the customer. If they sit down and decide, they want one or both the things I chose; I sell them. Otherwise, they return them, and all they are out is the cost of a coffee and maybe a pastry.
My son says it could work, but I have no money for space. I think, since I have been told, I can see into a person’s soul that I would be oftener right than mistaken.
Know anybody who would invest in such an idea? Yeah, me neither.
© Jo Ann J. A. Jordan
Haphazard Creative 
Maybe not a shop, but more of a one on one consulting situation. I would fear for your mug collection though. If your son keeps breaking them (accidentally I hope) then I’d worry about putting them in strangers hands.
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I could sell the mugs, except maybe a few that are uber cute. Mom raced to find the prettiest ones first, and she would smirk at me when she “won.” The mugs were her thing, I probably would have collected very few had she not been craven about it.
Alex is a guy, he just goes in space where he wishes and knocks things over. Grace is not in his repertoire. The clutter in my home aggravates him. “You need to get rid of all these books. You have enough clothes for a village, you need to get rid of them. You never use your art supplies, get rid of them. You have too many devices, pick a few, get rid of the rest. You should have none of it, you are on welfare. You did not pay for any of it. I have less and I work.”
Suicidal much? I told him this is from a lifetime, he still, I feel so awful.
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Those we love always make us feel the worst.
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I think so, because they matter, and that’s the rub. It is like sandpaper how loved ones can be. Abrasive enough, they leave indentations and pulls in the fabric of our lives.
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