The "i love my mom" mug I gave to my mom on a Mother's Day decades ago is written in Comic Sans, has a handle that's too small for more than a finger, and is capable of inflicting first degree burns at the mere mention of a hot beverage.
I drank from it once before shoving it back to the depths of the cabinet where I found it.
Part gift, part deliverer of pain--surely there's a metaphor in there.
The mug that 9-year-old me gave to my Dad, on the other hand, is a model specimen.
The handle fits four Dad-sized fingers.
The ceramic is well-insulated and properly glazed.
The serif and script fonts match the sentimentality and gravitas of its message.
There are even red laser lines, gray pin-striping, and a rhombus to hammer home the masculinity.
It was a lucky choice that now has me drinking my tea from it nightly. The humor in it all, never lost on me.
Really, such a monumental purchase ought to come with a free trial.