You already have one weird mug you'd never get rid of. We found the others.
Not the mug — the people. Four hundred–odd of us now, all quietly keeping track of secondhand mugs that somebody, at some point, decided they were done with.
Here's the whole idea
Once a month we go to a thrift store, find a mug that somebody loved enough to buy and then gave away, clean it up, give it a number, and post it to you.
That's it. That's the club. The rest of this page is just us being enthusiastic about it.
You join
We ask where to send things. That's the whole form. No quiz about your taste — nobody's taste is involved.
We go looking
Somebody stands at the back-wall shelf for a while. Checks for chips. Washes it properly. Takes its picture. Writes down its number.
It turns up
In a box, on a Tuesday, when you'd forgotten it was coming. That part never stops being good.
Somebody chose every single one of these on purpose
That's the part we can't get over. Someone stood in a shop and decided, deliberately, to own a mug that says WORLD'S OKAYEST GOLFER. Somebody ordered four hundred mugs for a plumbing supply company in a town of six thousand people. Somebody put two names and a dove on a piece of ceramic in 1987 and meant it sincerely.
And then, eventually, all of it ended up on the same shelf at the back of the shop, a dollar each, waiting.
We think that shelf is the best shelf in the building, and we appear to be the only ones who go to it.
Where some of them went
Every mug gets a number and a little page of its own. These eight went out last month.
Want to see how it feels?
Press the button. You get whatever comes up. That is, genuinely and completely, the entire service.
Nobody has picked a mug for you yet.
The bit we're all quietly building
Every mug we send has a number printed on the bottom, next to a little code. That number belongs to that mug forever.
Keep your mug forever if you like. Or give it to a friend, leave it at a new job, donate it back, sell it at a yard sale for fifty cents — it's completely yours and we're not precious about it.
But the number stays on the bottom. So when it turns up somewhere years from now, whoever's holding it can scan the code and add a note. Where they found it. A photo. Whatever they feel like saying.
Nobody can change what's already written. They can only add to it. Which means that slowly, without anyone really working at it, we're putting together a genuine record of where a few hundred completely ordinary objects went after the world was finished with them.
You don't have to do a thing to be part of that. It happens because you joined.
Things people have written down
"Left this at my old office when I quit. Someone from accounts payable just messaged me a photo of it. It has a plant in it now."
— @bettyhalloway"Found this one at a church sale two states away from where it started. I did not buy it. I felt that would be interfering. I did log it."
— @quietthrifter"My mother-in-law has been using this every morning for a year and has never once asked where it came from."
— @possum_hours"I joined for a mug and accidentally acquired a hobby. I now check the register more than I check the news."
"The best part is that none of us picked anything. We're all just finding out together on the same day."
"I gave one to my sister and she called me confused and then called me back an hour later delighted. Worth it entirely."
Sample entries — placeholder content for this draft. Real sightings and member notes will replace these before launch.
Nothing here is a trap
The "oh, no" clause
Randomness means one day you'll open the box and go "oh, no." Tell us and your next one's on us — twice a year, which is more forgiveness than the premise really deserves. Keep the bad one. Or pass it on. Honestly, passing it on is the best ending.
Ceramic is brave, but not that brave
Sometimes the post office wins. If yours arrives in pieces, tell us and another one's in the post. Please don't mail us the bits.
Leave whenever, come back whenever
No contract, no minimum, no exit interview. Your mugs stay yours and your numbers stay in the register either way.
Three ways to be one of us
- Same mugs, same care, half the cupboard
- Every one numbered and registered
- For anyone whose shelves are already making a point
- One a month, no warning, on a Tuesday
- The "oh, no" clause included
- Your numbers in the register from day one
- Twelve mugs, plus one extra
- First refusal on anything genuinely strange
- Low numbers — yours all register under MG-0500, which won't be true for anyone joining later
Giving one to somebody
Three months $135 · six months $255 · twelve months $480. Paid up front, arrives with a card saying who did this to them. They don't need an account and we don't need their email — just somewhere to send it.
This is, by a distance, how most people first hear about us.
We keep it small on purpose
34 of 40 places taken
One person finds, washes, photographs and packs every single mug, and that person is a human being with a car and a weekend. When we're full, we're full — and it stays a group rather than an audience, which is the bit we actually care about.
No newsletter. We'll only write when there's a place.
Things people ask
Can I pick the mugs?
Can I tell you what I like?
What if I get one I don't like?
Are they clean?
When does the first one arrive?
Do I have to do anything with the code?
Is my address private?
Is there a group chat?
Will you run out of mugs?
Come and be one of the mug people
Once a month a box turns up with something in it that nobody chose for you. It has a number on the bottom. That number goes in a book that thirty-seven other people are also watching.
That's the entire proposition and we think it's a lovely one.
Join us — 6 places left