The people who bring the plastic ware.
There are three kinds of people in this world and they are all present at potlucks.
There’s the one who brings the made-from-scratch masterpiece served on her grandmothers antique dishes. The one who picks up cookies at the store…you know the ones, in the loud plastic container, with the obnoxiously colored frosting and the sprinkles. And then there are the people who bring the plastic ware.
Zac emailed me this afternoon. His office is having a pot luck. He needs to put down his name next what dish he plans to bring. His email says, “Got any ideas? Or should I just bring the plastic ware?”
Time stopped. He thinks I would let him be the one who brings the plastic ware?!?
Oh, honey. I may not be a Stepford Wife but I am not, nor shall I ever be, the plastic ware person. This, by default, means that my husband and any children that I may bear will not be plastic ware people either.
Had I said “Yeah get the plastic ware” both of my grandmothers would have been rolling in their graves.
Now I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with being a plastic ware person. It takes all kinds, and that’s the truth. The potluck experience would be nothing without the plastic ware person.
It’s just that those people don’t live in my house : )
I could not believe Zac would even think of bringing the plastic ware. He knows me better than this. And his mother would not have allowed him to just take the plastic ware either.
See, this is how it happens for men. They are raised by women and then married off to be husbands (I know…and you thought men ruled the world). If men spend anytime on their own between living with their mothers and living with their wives, they become plastic ware people.
Zac did not spend any time of his own. He went from living with his mother – a type-a, make it from scratch or don’t make it all, over-acheiver like myself – to living with me. I am certain he’s never take plastic ware anywhere.
I had to call him. The call went like this:
“Hellloooo”
“You think we are plastic ware people?”
“God, no!”
“Do you know that’s the same level as buying your kid a plastic mask from Wal Mart and calling it a Halloween costume?? Do you think our kids are going to ware plastic masks and take plastic forks to their first-grade halloween party??”*
“Good God No!”
“Explain yourself.”
“I wanted you to make a fancy desert but you haven’t been feeling well so I didn’t want to come right out and ask…”
Thank. God. Relief. He does know me after all.
I gave him a list of things to pick up at the grocery store so I can make a fancy from-scratch desert. I plan to mix it in my grandmother’s mixing bowl. Because I’m that person. It isn’t always easy being that person but I can’t help it.
In example – My mom hates cooking with a passion. Actually despises the entire process of cooking from shopping for the ingrediants to cleaning up the mess. But she was raised by the “from scratch masterpiece on an antique dish” type so she has no choice but to BE that type. It’s like a caste system. My mom will holler every word in the book while she makes some sort of casserole or dessert item but she will never, ever, take the plastic ware.
*Note how pleasant I am to live with. His office pot luck spiraled into our unborn child’s first-grade halloween party in mere seconds. Yeah, that’s just how I am. Which is why I also have to be the maker of amazing deserts…it makes it easier to know me : )
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