Mug Rug Quotes

Ty laughed, a carefree, boyish sound, and glanced to his side, distracted by what he saw. “You moved the rug.” “I kitty-cornered it.” “Why would you do that?” Ty asked, aghast. “To see you lose your shit when you got home.” Zane leaned closer, grinning evilly. “There are other things out of order too. Books not alphabetized. Coffee mug handles facing different directions.” He lowered his voice to a whisper as Ty’s eyes widened in horror. “The closet isn’t color coded.” “You’re just watching the world burn, huh?” Zane laughed. “God I missed you.” Ty said in a rush of breath.

Contentment has learned how to find out what she needs to know. Last year she went on a major housecleaning spree. First she stood on her head until all the extra facts fell out. Then she discarded about half her house. Now she knows where every thing comes from—who dyed the yarn dark green and who wove the rug and who built the loom, who made the willow chair, who planted the apricot trees. She made the turquoise mugs herself with clay she found in the hills beyond her house. When Contentment is sad, she takes a mud bath or goes to the mountains until her lungs are clear. When she walks through an unfamiliar neighborhood, she always makes friends with the local cats.

snug as a bug in a rug with a mug

She liked old things and bright colors. She liked having too many throw pillows and too many coffee mugs. She liked rugs. And macramé wall hangings. She liked everything to be a little too much.

Then a low voice murmured in my ear. "Clea." I screamed and shot an immediate hammer punch to the side. "Whoa!" cried Ben. He reeled back to avoid my fist and tripped over the rug, tumbling to the ground and spilling a fresh mug of coffee over his gray shawl-neck sweater. "OH!" he gasped. "Hot. Very, very hot. Oh, not good." "Ben! Oh my God, wait-" I darted into the bathroom and grabbed a hand towel, then raced back to him, knelt down, and sopped the spilled coffee from his chest. "I'm so sorry. I didn't know you were there! You didn't say anything!" "I yelled from downstairs...I thought you'd heard me." A strange smell tickled my nose, and I bent closer to Ben, just inches from his face. "What's that smell?" I asked. "Cardamom clove coffee," he said, gesturing to the now empty mug on the floor beside us. "I thought you might like it." "I like the smell. Maybe you should wear it as a cologne." "Could work," he agreed. "You could give a testimonial that it makes women crazy." "Not crazy-nimble. Ten years of Krav Maga gives you catlike reflexes. If you'd been an intruder...

He turns his head to look down at Haruka sitting on the ornate rug in the middle of the floor. A disarray of books and notes spirals outward from his position—he is the eye of an academic hurricane. Haruka holds a black mug of steaming coffee in one hand while with the other he casually flips through a reference book on qualitative data analysis.

I, meanwhile, am starfished on my cushy ivory rug, staring at the ceiling with a mug of chai at my hip.

She loves throwing things out. At home alone during the week before she fell over all she did was throw things out – blouses, old dinner-sets, shoes, vases, mugs, sheets and rugs. It excited her to empty cupboards, to wipe down the empty shelves, to take the things we were throwing out to the tip, she loved our trips to the tip, her mind quickened at the prospect of the tip.

Everyone talks about the grief of losing someone you love, but they don’t talk about the grief of losing everything familiar. It’s not just the person; it’s the life you shared, the little things that connected you to them. The mug my mom used for coffee, the pictures of her and us on the walls, the spot where Pacha tore the rug that she mended. It’s been seven years since she did that. The dog died two years ago and now mom has passed, but that line in the rug is still as clear in my sight as the day she sewed it.