The Truth About Tupperware

I've been stuck on this post for days. The words are in my brain but I can't shape them into the sentences I need them to be. It's like that time I tried my hand at a potter's wheel. Demi Moore and Patrick Swayze made it seem so easy during Ghost. They lied. There I was with my lump of clay, spinning, spinning, spinning, the clay rising just like my hopes, only to come crashing down into a blob of despair and frustration.

That's this post.

Only slightly less lumpy.

The topic vexing me?

Tupperware.

That's not where you thought I was going with this post, is it? Bear with me.

Tupperware is the devil for so many reasons.

Starting with that moment you want to use a certain piece of Tupperware only to realize you don't own it, to that next moment when you pull out a piece of Tupperware from the dishwasher where your children thoughtfully placed it only to realize it is now less Tupperware and more melted plastic to that final moment when you open up the cabinet you store your Tupperware and it all falls out, a tidal wave of overpriced plastic crashing against the shore of your slightly dirty, extremely ugly linoleum.

That's my life right now. Tupperware. 

And I seem to be missing the one lid I need, rendering the entire container useless. I may as well just use a bowl. Which I would, but my children have either broken most of them or hid them under their beds to live amongst the lost socks, the dust bunnies and the dog-eared magazines I'm sure I'm not supposed to know about. 

I was 18 years old when I was invited to my first Tupperware party. One of my friend's older sisters was hosting the event and I was happy to accept the invite because it contained the word "party." Little did I know that a Tupperware party, or a candle party or a jewellery party? Those aren't parties. They're smaller circles of hell.

I walked in to the room expecting music and laughter and booze and found middle aged women kvetching about their kids, their husbands, their jobs, surrounded by displays of colourful plastic kitchen wares and a dried up cheese platter. Just when I thought I could escape, the hostess and her vendor swarmed the guests and put the screws to them. It was my first experience with a high pressure sales tactic and when I realized you don't just show up at a tupperware party for the free crackers, you are actually expected to purchase something, I faked illness and barely escaped with my life and barely left with my clothes still on my back.

Wait. Wrong story.

My point is Tupperware parties are not parties. And they're not for those who have to smuggle their dirty laundry into their parent's house to use Mom and Dad's washer and dryer because they don't have enough change to pay for the coin washers in their own crappy apartment building. 

Then I had kids. 

And I found myself pilfering my mother's Tupperware collection. Because Tupperware? Was suddenly useful. I needed it like a toddler needs crayons to draw on the walls with. Oh sure, I could use the cheap disposable crap you buy in the grocery store, but I craved the real stuff. The stuff that wouldn't melt if you left it on a counter top in the sun. 

My mom would send home left overs from a family dinner and she'd hesitate before scooping the food into a Tupperware container. "You'll bring this back, right? Tupperware isn't cheap, you know," she said as I crossed my fingers behind back with one hand and snatched the container out of her hands with the other.

"I promise Mom. I'll bring it right back."

I never did. I was a Tupperware thief. Over the years, I amassed quite the collection too, until my mother finally wised up to my antics and started sending leftovers home in ziploc baggies. She cut me off from my supply and I had to find a new source.

My Tupperware supply dwindled, lost like matching socks until I had basically none. Tupperware is overrated, I declared, and instead, invested in glass containers with lids. I even broke down and bought the cheap imitation stuff I had scorned for so long, figuring my kids are going to lose it anyways.

But none of it was the same.

None of it was Tupperware.

And that's how I found myself staring at a Tupperware web site, adding item after item to my virtual shopping cart until I realized, hundreds of dollars later, that I am middle aged with a mental sickness no doctor can cure. Because only deranged lunatics spend this much money on plastic products to keep their pickles fresh.

There was a time, when I was younger, I thought the signs of adult success were a lovely house and a vehicle that didn't have rust holes in its side panels.  No longer. Now that I've ripened in age, I've realized mortgages are over-rated and rust panels are the equivalent of vehicular cellulite. As long as the seatbelts work and the wheels still turn, I won't judge. Because to me, the real sign of success is the size of one's Tupperware collection and whether you have all the matching lids.

I'm a caricature of my former self, preoccupied with proper storage containers, matching tea towels and finding the perfect tablecloth. I'm like the cliche about the balding man with a sports car, only substitue it with an apron and plastic pasta containers instead. I don't know how I got here but I've got to tell you, it's very organized and tidy where I am.

I don't even recognize myself anymore. If I start putting doilies on every surface I'm going to need one of you to hit me over the head with a shovel and put me out of my misery. Please.

Just make sure my mother gets my tupperware collection. I probably owe her at least half of it anyways.

Protect The Airway

I woke up in the middle of the night convinced I was dying.

I couldn't breathe. Not regularly. Not easily. I was gasping for air and it felt like there was a giant vice grip around my neck, choking me. I couldn't swallow because I had apparently swallowed a dozen large marbles and they were just sitting in my throat.

It's weird the thoughts you'll have as you are busy convincing yourself death is near.

All I could think, as I struggled to draw breath was, "Oh my God, I'm a bloody liar." For years, since my son died suddenly and unexplainably in the middle of the night, I have told anyone and myself I wasn't afraid of dying because I'd already lived through hell. 

Turns out, when it's 3:35 am and I can't breathe, I'm damn scared of dying.

A memory broke loose, like air escaping an old rubber tire.

"Protect the airway."

***

It had been ten days since the birth of my newest son, Skjel, and only two since a team of medical professionals had announced casually to me, the way one would declare the sky grey or the wind to be chilly, that my baby would never move the muscles in his face, not to smile, not to cry, not to anything. 

A doctor stood in front of me explaining the latest surgical procedure my infant child needed to endure. I was having a hard time understanding the mechanics of what he was saying. Chalk it up to shock, chalk it up to ignorance, but my brain could not process the words coming out of the man's mouth.

"You want to do what? With a BUTTON?" I asked him to re-explain, again, for what seems the umpteenth time.

"We need to stitch his tongue to his bottom lip, and we'll stabilize it using a couple of buttons. Imagine a hamburger. The buttons are the bun holding the patty in place."

It was crude and inelegant but it painted a picture I understood.

"But why?" I asked, still horrified by the visual.

"To protect his airway." 

Skjel, buttoned for two weeks, with a successful tongue-lip adhesion.

***

I crawled out of bed, the air whistling in and out of my chest and tried gargling warm salt water as I boiled water for tea. Clutching my mug, I sat down and opened my laptop, squinting at the brightness of the screen as I googled 'how to prevent your throat swelling close'. 

Honey and lemon. 

It didn't help.

I told myself I was being ridiculous as I crawled back to bed with my laptop in my hands. My anxiety was raging out of control. 'Get a grip. Take control of the situation,' I told myself.

I coughed suddenly, causing the marbles lodged in my airway to shift and I suddenly couldn't breathe at all.

In bold red letters at the bottom of the screen it flashed:

"Always protect your airway."

***

All that stood between my son finally being discharged from the hospital and coming home, almost a half a year after he was born was a plastic dummy.

Twice a week, for weeks, my husband and I had to play with that dummy. 

I hated that dummy.

We practiced our life saving skills on that dummy, until they were rote. Hours were spent in a tiny room, learning all the various ways we could save our son's life when we would bring him home, until we were finally deemed competent enough to handle any medical emergency our son may encounter.

I saved that dummy more times than I could count. I protected that dummy's airway like my son's life would one day depend on it, not realizing four years later, it would.

"Protect his airway," my husband and I repeated like a prayer for protection, all the years my son was alive.

***

With every breath increasingly harder to draw, I called my husband. My anxiety was making the situation worse and Bruce is my voice of reason. He has always been able to restore order to the chaos and I needed this as badly at the moment as I needed air.

He listened to me struggle to breathe and to talk and within moments he told me to hang up and call our province's health line. Sometimes the only thing that works with my anxiety is a simple set of directions. So I did what I was told.

As I waited for a nurse to answer my call, an electronic voice reminded me that if this was a medical emergency to hang up the phone and dial 911. I ignored it until the nurse finally answered.

With great effort, I explained my situation to this anonymous woman, and waited for her to have some magic remedy to make my middle of the night emergency go away. Instead, she mimicked the digitized voice and quite urgently told me hang up and call 911.

I told her I was rural and I couldn't use medical resources that way. It would take them away from someone who actually needed them.

She stopped me mid-sentence and explained I was that someone who needed those services.

"Your airway is becoming obstructed. You have to protect your airway. Or you'll be dead."

***

I didn't call for an ambulance.

My husband instead called his mother, a retired nurse.

She whisked me to the hospital, where there was much rushing around, waving of arms and declarative statements made.

By the end of the day, I was home, exhausted, terribly ill, but the marbles in my throat smaller and more manageable, even if they do remind me of their existence every time I swallow.

I'm left with prescription medicine and the residue of memories trudged out from the dark corners of my memory, where I had hoped they would rot away into nothingness.

I wonder why my airway was saved and his wasn't. The arbitrariness of life hurts and haunts, an infection of spirit I know will never fully be cured. 

The demons that escaped in the middle of the night are refusing to be shuttered away and not even the bright light of dawn will scatter them.

Bad Touch

I remember the afternoon I first told my parents I had a boyfriend. A real boyfriend, not just some celebrity boyfriend who lived in my imagination, inspired by the pictures I tore out of the latest copy of Teen Beat and tacked to my bedroom walls.

Here's looking at you River Phoenix, may you rest in peace.

I was fifteen years old and swoony over a big blue-eyed blonde boy named Bruce. (I always did have a weakness for alliteration.) I was spending the week with my best friend, who just so happened to be Bruce's cousin and I was excited to tell my folks all about my new beau.

In my teenaged exuberance, I hadn't stopped to take into account how my parents, most specifically my father, would feel about their daughter entering the dating world. I ignorantly thought they'd be as excited as I was. Because! Hearts! Flowers! True Love! Forever!

Since the boy who held my affection happened to be my father's best friend's youngest son, a boy my family had known his entire life, I naturally assumed there would be much praise and congratulations bestowed when I told my parents my wonderful news.

I stood, holding the telephone to my ear, grinning from ear to ear, staring out upon the same fields my father had stared at when he was my age, and waited for one of my parents to answer the ringing phone.

My dad picked up.

I launched into my excited tale, words shot like rapid-fire bullets into his ear, as tiny invisible hearts swirled above my head. 

My dad? He made about as much noise as a rock does as it sits in a driveway. I barely noticed as I chattered on. Innocent and so, so stupid. 

When I finally managed to stop long enough to inhale, my dad asked a question I had not expected:

"Why him? What's so special about him?"

You could say familiarity had bred contempt. You could say my father had maybe hoped I'd date a city slicker instead of the son of his oldest friend. You could even say I had probably shocked him into not really knowing what else to say. Any of this could be true. Perhaps all of it was. 

All I knew was it wasn't the reaction I was expecting. I didn't know how to answer; so shocked and stunned was I by his question.

I muttered something completely inelegant and trite, as were most of the things that came out of my mouth at that age tended to be and I staggered under the weight of my dad's obvious disapproval.

My love bubble had burst. Thanks Dad.

I had forgotten that conversation with my father, and the words he said. I had forgotten his reaction and how, for one second, it made me question everything I had been feeling towards the boy I later ended up marrying.

That conversation, that memory, had long been relegated to the dustiest corners of my brain, eroding a little further with each day that passed. 

And then my daughter started dating a boy she has known for most of her life, the son of a man my husband has known for much of his life. Suddenly, memories I didn't remember I had have all come flooding back to center stage. 

Nostalgia has washed over me, bathing me in the past, reminding me that the innocence I see upon my daughter's face was once mirrored on my own.

Is it wrong that I covet the boyfriend's truck? Complete with haybale for traction?

I never fully realized how soothing nostalgia is as a parental balm. It's probably the only thing that is keeping me from walking around screaming "Bad touch! Bad touch!" every time I see my daughter's boyfriend so much as look at my daughter.

(Okay, so I may have already yelled 'bad touch!' once or twice at them, but it was all in good fun. Maybe.)

But what I've come to realize as my daughter starts to explore her dating world, is that nostalgia isn't such a soothing balm for Bruce. It is more like Tiger's balm. The nostalgia and memories, they burn. Or maybe it is just that daddies are predisposed to growling about their daughter's boyfriends, regardless of how awesome those boyfriends may be.

I am fully enjoying watching my husband navigate this minefield my daughter has so thoughtfully lured him into. It's given me insight into my own father's reactions all those years ago. Because yes, I really did marry my father.

My husband hasn't stopped twitching in weeks. And these two kids haven't even been on a real, un-chaperoned date as of yet. 

If and when that finally happens? Well, I can't guarantee I won't be twitching right along with Bruce. Probably while reminding him that it was all our "bad touches" that lead us to this moment to begin with.

Heaven help us all.