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?
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.