Man vs. thermos on Dean's Date eve

It's a faceoff. The unwashed coffee thermos stares up at me from the bottom of the sink. I have been trying to get the lid off his stupid, fat, cylindrical face for five minutes now.

The light glints cheekily off his metal coating. "Star-BUCK you!" he seems to jeer. Enraged, I seize him again and grip the top, my hands turning white from the pressure as I twist. I'm like the squirrel from "Ice Age," pawing at his oversized acorns; my eyes bulge, and a minute groan escapes my pinched lips as my forearms tremble, straining weakly against the lid. Suddenly, the thermos cap budges a centimeter and stops with a rubbery squeak. Before I can redirect the immense force of my arm, my hand slips and delivers a firm uppercut to the nose. The thermos rushes close behind; thirsty for a brawl, he leaps, smacking himself against my forehead with an empty clunk.

Shocked, I take a step back from the sink to absorb the reality of what has happened. A cup just punched me in the face. On purpose.

Robbed of my dignity and unsure how to proceed, I set the aggressor back down. Leaning against the opposite counter, I rub my tenderized nose, eyeing the cup. Oh yeah? Well the coffee-thermos engineers at Starbucks didn't want to market you anyway. You were a mistake. And your butt's made out of plastic stuff. Stupid plastic-butt. I bet you can't eve -

I stop myself. Breathing deeply, I stretch my arms over my head and take a few contemplative laps around the kitchenette. If I react, I'm no better than the cup. He should have used his words, but just because he hurt me does not give me the permission to hurt him back. I will resolve this like an adult. Now. My options are: 1) Pry cap off with butter knife. 2) Wash with cap still on. 3) Give up.

I consider my possible modes of recourse; the butter knife sounds hazardous, particularly in light of the cup's shifty character. He's already punched me in the face; let's not get blades involved. Washing him with the lid on could feasibly work; if I use some sort of straw - I glance around the countertop and settle on my only substitute, a stray chopstick - I can funnel water into the tiny mouth-hole, squeeze in some soap, and churn it like a maraca. This could work. In theory.

Twiddling the chopstick in my fingers, I stare at the sink basin. The thermos lolls indolently near the drain, sunbathing under the fluorescent kitchen light. Baiting my patience.

Screw option three. We're settling this right now. I tug open the silverware drawer and poke through the utensils, searching for a particularly sturdy specimen. I select a stainless-steel model, complete with hardwood handle, and swivel toward the sink, punisher in hand. Chuckling, I nuzzle the blade under the rubber underbelly of the lid and lean into my genius system of leverage. I crank the butter knife like a lever, letting out a small squeal with each thrust. My face reddens as my slippered feet patter against the linoleum, jogging weakly in place. I release a battle cry and launch my full weight onto the handle. The blade flexes like a bow, trembling under my bodyweight. Then, with a final shudder, the blade plinks faintly and snaps like a twig.

No. This cup did not just break a knife.

I turn the thermos in my hands with newfound respect. Damn. This thing's like a steel-cylinder bombshell. Or one of those hermetically sealed capsules that astronaut-scientists use to transport pipettes of DNA or holographic messages into the future. Delirious from paper-writing and sleep deprivation, I begin to question whether this so-called "coffee thermos" isn't possessed by some higher intelligence. What goes on inside his little cup-brain? Can he tell time? Does he have a special loyalty to me, his owner? What would he say if he could talk?

We stare at each other, man and thermos. His metal coating winks plaintively in the kitchen light, imploring me. Please, he seems to whisper. Check yourself before you wreck yourself.

And then it hits me. This thermos knows it's the night before Dean's Date. He KNOWS I've had too much caffeine. He's not trying to inconvenience me - he's trying to save me from myself. Friends cut friends off after their second mug of caffeinated chai. I pat his rubbery head. Your punch wasn't an act of aggression, was it? It was a love-tap, an affectionate way of restoring circulation to my head after hours in front of the computer. You little tyke, you.

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Hand in handle, we stroll down the hall toward my dorm room, the last dregs of tea still sloshing in his little belly. It's all a matter of perspective; I went into the Forbes kitchen expecting a fight, and I came out with a friend. All I had to do was turn my frown upside down and realize: There was more to my mug's motivations than I was giving him credit for. Give a thermos half a chance, and you get half a friend. But give a thermos the benefit of the doubt, and you get a buddy for life.

Tomorrow, of course, after I turn in my papers, I'm going to Starbucks and demanding to exchange him for a cup with a flip-top.

Becca Foresman is a sophomore from San Diego, Calif. She can be reached at foresman@princeton.edu.