Formula 1, Tupperware

I’d like to talk about the Formula 1 decision to move from Bridgestone to Pirelli tires this year, and how that will affect the driving style of someone with tons of experience, like Schumacher, versus a newer driver like Vettel.

I’m sorry, M and Big C. That was just a ruse to lure you in to the blog. I don’t actually know anything about which tires F1 is using this year. If they had commissioned Tim Horton’s to make tire-sized doughnuts to put on their wheels it would be all the same to me.

What I really wanted to talk about was my new tupperware. Well, it’s Rubbermaid, actually, that’s why I didn’t put a capital ‘T’ on tupperware, something my spell-checker is having a very hard time accepting. Tupperware seems to have evolved into the generic name for all small plastic storage containers and if the people in their trademark division are going to hunt me down and melt all my Rubbermaid products for calling them tupperware with a small ‘t’, well that’s a risk I’m willing to take.

It’s like being told to write dumpster with a capital ‘D’, or kleenex with a capital ‘K’. I know they’re brand names but they are also generic names now and unless I’m selling my own brand of tissue and calling it Kleenex I think we can dispense with capitalizing the first letter. I feel like I’m talking about a person when I capitalize. “Honey, can you pass me a Roberto so I can blow my nose? And when you’re done do you mind taking the trash out to the Frank?”

I have a thing about plastic storage containers. What I mean by that is, I love them, collect them, sort them by size, genre, brand name and find endless solace in them. When I’m with my tupperware, I feel at peace. My whole house and life could potentially be sorted, organized and labelled into clear plastic containers, and sometimes I earnestly try to do just that.

Small containers are easy to find. Getting your hands on a really big one is harder. My sis Theo came home breathless with excitement once in Calgary because she had found the storage box to end all storage boxes. So I rushed back to the store with her and when I saw the boxes agreed that there was no way I could carry on living without buying one. We each bought two. I don’t remember how many litres they held but put it this way: a St. Bernard could have had a very comfortable nap in one.

You may think we lived to regret that purchase but you’d be mistaken there. We may have had some trouble getting the boxes in the car to bring them home but it was a short drive, maybe we kept the trunk open. It wouldn’t have mattered. We were triumphant.

I used those plastic wonder boxes for all kinds of things. The kids’ toys, mainly, but I also emptied one and used it as a mini pool for them. I put it in the backyard, filled it with water, and they enjoyed a few dips in it on summer afternoons. I even tied a rope on one, put some blankets inside and pulled the kids over the snow in it one winter.

I’m not making this up, though I have suddenly become conscious of how improbable it sounds. The Plastic Box that Did It All. If it will bolster my credibility at all, I can assure you that there were a few things it was not used for. It was never used as a spare bed, even for children. I didn’t put a desk and lamp in it and try to turn it into a home office. No trout ever swam in it.

My tupperware fetish wasn’t a big deal in Canada. A lot of women are storage container enthusiasts there. Here in the Middle East it seems to be less of a thing. My Lebanese friends and family, while appreciating the utility of tupperware, seem content to own two or three pieces. They laugh at my collection.

I never announce a new purchase to M. What would that serve? He doesn’t understand how I feel. When I buy a new container I put it into immediate circulation and pretend it has always been there. In defence of my hobby, it isn’t as expensive as purse buying, or shoe buying. As for clothes, Costco is good enough for me. Though sometimes I get the feeling that M wouldn’t mind if my taste in clothing got a bit more expensive. The Next jeans, bought five years ago, that I currently walk around in don’t really cut the mustard beside what the well-heeled Beirut ladies are wearing. I’ve never even entered an Aïshti store. (No, that’s not true, I went in the small one in Faqra last fall with my sister-in-law, who was cold and wanted a sweater. All we found was weird, plaid stuff for hundreds of dollars that only Elton John would look good in.)

I set out to enthuse over my new Rubbermaid collection but now it feels like the moment has passed. Maybe it has something to do with my discovery just a few minutes ago — in between paragraphs I’ve been getting up to hang laundry, make dinner for the kids etc. — that the labels I put on the new containers are not sticking well. The lids seem to be made of that kind of plastic that nothing sticks to. This is very upsetting to me.

This happened last fall when I tried to label a plastic storage box that I’d put our ski stuff into. I knew from previous attempts that labels don't stay on this kind of plastic so this time I took a paring knife and lightly scratched the surface in a label-sized area. But when I put the label onto the scratched spot it stuck no better than before. I tried attaching an index card by twist-tie through the holes in the box handle, but it wouldn’t hang straight and kept snagging and tearing on things when I moved the box.

I never have been able to keep a label on that box. I try not to think about it. But if labels aren’t going to stick to my new collection (27 containers with interchangeable, easy-stack lids) I don’t know what I’m going to do. Oh, this is all most upsetting. Most upsetting.