It's Like My Binky

Hot Guy calls it "the big black". How I love it. It's huge, round and insulated. It has fallen down stairs, fallen into the trash and been left in hotel rooms. I have violent feelings when other people try to use it. When Hot Guy uses it, I want to smack him. It's MINE. It's my favorite. And I earned it, dammit.

Sure, it's probably petty to get so upset about a cup, but I don't care. I love that cup. I got it at the hospital where I gave birth to Lovebug and I've been overly attached to it every since. It's not just that it's black instead of some brightly colored advertisement for 7-11 or Quik Trip (which, for the record, kicks 7-11's ass). It's not just that it reminds me of giving birth to my middle child (aka the least dramatic and traumatic of all of my children's births). It's that I've declared it as mine.

When Hot Guy and I first moved in together, I discovered that my collection of large, refillable, insulated cups was depleting. He would take one and leave it somewhere, comfortable in the knowledge that a new cup was only a few bucks and a short drive away. I tried to get over it. After all, it's not like I was emotionally attached to the cups, right?

Enter "the big black" a few years later. It looked so cool, Hot Guy conned the nurses into giving him one too. Which he subsequently left somewhere. And I declared that the other big, black cup was MINE. He was not allowed to take it anywhere and I really didn't want him to use it at all.

My cup has survived these last 4 years, mostly due to my vigilance. At first, he avoided it completely. But eventually he'd use it if it was in the drying rack and he wanted a quick drink of water. I tried to let it go, especially when he'd just hand it over if I asked for it. Even though sometimes he'd suggest that I drink water from it too. If the Goddess had wanted me to drink water when I wasn't exercising, she wouldn't have invented Diet Pepsi.

Anyway,  it's getting worse. The rest of our supply has been decimated, and our local 7-11 doesn't seem to have them. This morning I caught him drinking cranberry juice out of it. I am very concerned that his next step will be to take it with him somewhere. Then I may have to kill him.

I know, I know. It's a cup. That's Hot Guy's argument. Why get worked up over a cup?

I don't know. Maybe when I wind up in chocolate rehab my therapist can help me figure it out. But for now I'm asking you, internets, how can I make sure he keeps his paws off of MY cup?