Dear Tupperware, I hate you…

Dear Tupperware,

Prior to giving birth, I didn’t need you. You were an insignificant part of my life — so small it would be laughable to even consider you a “part” of anything. You were a mere particle in the universe. Chicken feed in my cabinetry.

But, boy, have you made yourself at home. It seems you sniffed opportunity the moment baby appeared. I needed a place to store pureed fruit and you opened your plastic arms to me–joyfully feeding into my fear of store-bought baby food. I try to save money by overcooking at night and you whisper, “yes, yes, do it. Make enough minestrone for 14 people. I’ll convince you you’re prudent instead of irresponsible and really bad with a measuring cup.”

But seriously, WTF is going on, Tupperware? How is it that you’ve reproduced with the rapidity of libidinous rabbits? How haven’t I noticed? Why are my shelves now teeming with plastic containers of all shapes and sizes–containers that aren’t made to fit any cabinet, anywhere on earth? Furthermore, where have all your lids gone?

And why, for the love of god, does a lid that previously fit you now appear to be some hybrid of oval and triangle–ovangle?

That is all for now. Shape up, Tupperware.


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