It was touch-and-go from the very beginning.
I left home the summer I graduated from high school only to discover that all of my possessions, minus the mattress and dresser drawer, fit into my first car, a ’68 Ford Falcon, a car quite old even at that time.
You might not need a china hutch or a TV, but towels? A can opener? Forks?!
Those first couple weeks were quite a shock.
Preparedness was not my forte.
And there was the matter of the money.
I was raised frugally. The product of a mother who eschewed paying for doctors based on her belief in the restorative powers of the Hot Wet Washrag and a father who would rather fry you a hamburger and cut his own fries rather than hit the McDonald’s drive-thru, I’ve never led an extravagant life.
Which brings me to my Tupperware.
Oh, and when I use the word “Tupperware”, I use it in the same way that I use “Barbie”, “Jello” or “Kleenex” to describe any doll, flavored gelatin or tissues.
There are whole legal departments out there spending good money to combat just such mental laziness.
But back to my Tupperware.
Would you believe old Cool-Whip and sour cream containers, pickle jars and fanny packs?
No, not fanny packs. I’m not sure why I said that.
I just can’t bring myself to spend money on rubber, burping-lid food preservers. Part of me feels I should, but why bother? I do actually own a couple of real Tupperware, of course: for carrying my lunch to work. You really can’t trust that the old sour cream container will remain sealed.
Believe me when I tell you this. The Chili-Seaped-Into-The-Bottom-Of-My-Lunch-Bag Blues is no way to start your day.
But if those leftovers are just going to sit in my fridge until tomorrow?
It can do that sitting in the Cool-Whip container.
Like I said, it started out poorly. It’s not gotten much better.
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