I’ve got this decision to make and it’s killing me. It’s one of those “Sophie’s Choice” situations, only with less Nazis and more Tupperware.*
But this Tupperware is the perfect size and shape. Every time you’re about to throw it out, someone doesn’t finish a can of soup and there it is, your trusty friend, ready to hobble up to the plate. It’s like Igor; humpy and pop-eyed, but there when you need a human brain during off hours at the brain store.
I know I shouldn’t have microwaved sloppy Joes in it. Repeatedly. Over the course of 3 years. I’m sure the chloraflorbins or floracarbons or whatever they’re called that were released as I nuked those leftovers have already sealed my fate. And if not mine, certainly the fate of that Tupperware. It looks like the lovechild of Mickey Rourke and Lindsay Lohan on a Tijuana bender.
But it is the only one I have in that particular shape and size. I’d have to buy a whole other set just to get the one like it. That’s insanity. That’s like adopting 24 kids because one of them will grow up to be a less porny Tiger Woods.
I know I have to get rid of it. One more trip to the microwave and it will transform into the Toxic Avenger, rolling across the kitchen floor on its own volition, trying to eat the dog. The other day I grabbed it out of the dishwasher and nearly cut my finger on it’s jagged insides. No blood though. Whew. I’ve read enough Stephen King novels to know you never let inanimate objects taste your blood. Cars. Trucks. Printing machines. In King world, a drop of your blood on a desk lamp will end with you turning slowing in your swivel office chair, a light bulb shoved down your throat.
Horrified Family Member: Oh my god! Who would do such a thing?
Cop: I don’t know… Do you think he did it to himself? Like, an accident?
HFM: Like Auto-erotic Light Bulb Asphyxiation?
Cop: Yeah…like A.L.B.A.
HFM: Hm… maybe. Oh well. I should clean up this place— OW! I cut myself on the keyboard! *ominous music*
Even as I type this, my janky Tupperware is in the fridge, filled with spaghetti meat sauce. Plotting my death. Or, I guess this time plotting my husband Mike’s death, because I don’t like spaghetti sauce.
Maybe I’ll just let Mike see the Tupperware. He’ll be able to make the hard decision. He’ll insist we throw it out.
And as he throws it into the recycle bin I’ll hear him cry: “Ow! I cut my finger on that stupid thing!”
Then I know we’re in trouble.
* Actually the container in question is “Rubbermaid” not Tupperware, but it’s easier to call it Tupperware. Oh the highs and lows of becoming a household name. Just ask Kleenex and Band-Aid.
