It takes guts to admit to a phobia. I have more than one, but this one will do for now. I can’t stand to touch plastic ware, mainly Tupperware or any brand that resembles that sturdy piece of American culture from the 1950s.
My mother, rest her sainted soul and bless her heart, was a Tupperware lady. During those years, she hosted numerous parties in our and her friends’ homes.
It wasn’t until years later I learned the truth about these parties. They were a front for gossip and cocktails. In her old age, she admitted it was a sham, and the girls used it as a front to get away from us kids and husbands for a few hours and get sloshed on Manhattans and Gin and Tonics. It was the perfect set-up. She made a small amount of money, had some good hi-balls, and caught up on the neighborhood gossip. They were the forerunner to ” girls night out,” which started in the 90s. I sometimes wandered into the room hoping to find a little finger sandwich or a Vienna sausage on a toothpick. Instead, I found a pack of “big-haired” gals holding a cocktail glass in one hand and a cigarette in the other. My mother was a world champion smoker and would have a ciggie in hand and one perched in her ashtray. Mothers back then were tough gals.
Our kitchen was stuffed to the point of bursting with the plastic-ware. It filled every drawer and cabinet and was neatly stacked to the ceiling on top of the ice-box. We ate on paper plates and drank from aluminum glasses. There was no room for real dishes or glassware; It was all Tupperware everywhere. The ice box was neatly arranged, with meals sealed in Tupperware. We didn’t call them “leftovers” in our home; they were called “future pre-prepared dinners.” Some of those dinners were on-call for a year or more. That’s the beauty of Tupperware: if properly sealed per the manufacturer’s instructions, the food will last for years.
Now, the explanation of the phobia. It’s complex and involves many layers of childhood anxiety. My therapist said it started with an incident when I was five years old. I don’t remember what I did, but it was severe enough for a butt-whooping from my mother. While trying to escape, she grabbed one arm, a classic move that only mothers use, and wielded the nearest object she could find, which was an 8×10 Tupperware slimline cake storage container. I had no idea plastic ware could hurt so damn much. The impression of the insignia on the bottom of the container lingered on my butt for days. Of course, I showed it to all my buddies, and they were pretty impressed and worried because their mothers owned the same Tupperware containers.
After that incident, I couldn’t bring myself to touch plastic ware in any form. That brought more punishment because when helping with the dishes, I would retreat from the kitchen sink when a dirty piece of Tupperware was to be washed. There was nothing that could make me touch that vile object. That plastic dish scared me as much as the monster under my bed. My father realized that his only son was becoming a child neurotic and stepped in to help my mother with the dishes, thus allowing me to enjoy a somewhat normal childhood.
Not much has changed in 65 years; I can’t touch the stuff. My wife, Momo, loves her some Tupperware. She has a beautiful assortment of colored containers that, when soiled, she puts in the dishwasher. That is another layer of my anxiety. I cannot take them from the rack. I use a set of tongues to grab the cursed piece and then lay it on the counter for her to put away. I don’t care to know where she hides this stuff as long as I don’t come into contact with it.
My therapist is a cheeky fellow. He told me that being spanked with a Tupperware dish and all the problems it caused me could have been worse. My mother could have grabbed a PYREX dish.
Notes From The Cactus Patch 