December 20, 2013 

Leftovers bother me. Not to be too judgmental, but leftovers are food that didn’t make the cut. Leftovers are food that wasn’t good enough to eat the first time around. Why would I eat them a day or two later? Anyone that has seen me eat understands that the only thing left over around me after a meal is shame of the mass quantity consumed in such a short amount of time.

Since I have no need for leftovers, I have no need for the infuriating contrivances used to store and transport them, namely Tupperware and plastic wrap.

Tupperware is sometimes sold via direct marketing, woman to woman, home to home. The sales gatherings are called parties. The reason it’s called a party is because women are gathered to check out the new and improved ways to annoy their husbands. I’ve never been to a Tupperware party, but I can just hear the sales pitch. “Ladies, the new ‘Square Container-Round Lid’ series carries an annoyance rate of approximately 87 percent to any male that touches it, along with an associated 25 percent increase in rates of stroke and heart attack!” Wives, when you tell your husbands to put something in Tupperware, what you’re really saying is that you’re totally fine if you never see us ever again.

Tupperware kills because, after an hour of searching, men realize that our wives, who were supposed to love us, sent us to a cabinet that contains 324 pieces of Tupperware, none of which match. Moreover, in some sort of plastic on plastic violence, the lids have staged a coup when the cabinet door was closed because they outnumber containers two to one.

I don’t know where the containers go. Maybe the lids eat them when no one is watching.

Men will stand there for an hour, confounded, realizing that their wife has already changed the channel in the living room and will never again relinquish control of the remote. Come back without the leftovers properly stored, you are a failure. Stand there until daybreak, and you’re a dope.

Overwhelmed and defeated, most men simply choose death, using the Tupperware within reach to spell out their last will and testament before falling to the floor forever silent.

Tupperware’s less sophisticated, but equally wretched, cousin is plastic wrap. Plastic wrap has to be a product of the U.S. government. In the history of our country, no one has paid so much for so little. By the time a man can figure out how to unravel the leading edge of the plastic wrap, and pull out enough to cover a dish, not a Tupperware dish, but an actual plate or bowl from another cabinet mind you, the leftovers have long since become a moldy science experiment. It’s only after you finally get a usable pull of plastic wrap, usually after your 33rd try, that you realize the joke is on you. Plastic wrap is a Latin term meaning something that sticks only to itself. No matter how hard you try, it will not seal. Out of sheer necessity I have devised a system when given the task of wrapping leftovers in plastic. Ignoring the plastic altogether, I cram the leftovers tightly into the cardboard tube, shove everything back into the box, and then place it neatly into the drawer from whence it came. Men are, after all, problem solvers.

I will eat everything my wife feeds me, chuckle when she calls me a garbage disposal, and defiantly wear the husky pants, but I will not yield. I shall not be defeated by leftovers.

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