16.

DIARY OF A BUBBLE WRAP SCRAP

Saturday, 10:30 a.m.: In a bold act of defiance, I march out to the trash bin and throw away a piece of used, unrecyclable Bubble Wrap. Mother would be mortified.

Pride surges. I march back in the house. I’ve taken a stand for my new commitment to uncluttered living. Rejected Mother’s Way.

10:35 a.m.: Shame takes over. It was a perfectly good piece of Bubble Wrap. Could be used a hundred more times. I march back out to the trash and rescue the scrap from the bin.

10:37 a.m.: Defiance kicks back in. I march the Bubble Wrap back out.

10:39 a.m.: Shame takes over. I march the Bubble Wrap back in.

10:41 a.m.: Defiance. Bubble Wrap out.

10:43 a.m.: Shame. Bubble Wrap in.

10:45 a.m.: I stand in the kitchen, Bubble Wrap clenched in my hand. Worse. A lifetime of birthdays, Christmases, and Mother’s Days is also clenched in that hand. Mom has never thrown out anything with wrap in the name. Not Saran Wrap, not Reynolds Wrap. Not, heaven forbid, anything having to do with gift wrap.

“Oh, the wrapping paper is so beautiful!” Mom exclaims every time a gift is opened. “Here! Let’s carefully peel the tape so the paper doesn’t tear! . . . Wait! I can flatten that out and fold it to use next year! . . . Don’t wad up the tissue paper! I’ll save it for another gift! . . . Wait! Save the ribbon! . . . Save the bow! . . . Save the box! . . . Save the gift bag! . . . DO NOT THROW OUT THE BUBBLE WRAP!!”

After we open gifts on Christmas morning, everyone in the family has a little pile of presents in front of them. Mom—looking as delighted as anyone in the room—has a pile of rescued gift wrap, tissue paper, ribbons, bows, boxes, gift bags, and Bubble Wrap in front of her.

10:48 a.m.: I pry my fingers open, drop the scrap of Bubble Wrap on the counter, grab my car keys, and drive to the store, where I buy a $9 plastic storage bin in which to store used scraps of Bubble Wrap. Pride surges. I’ve found a way to take charge of my own life without being haunted by visions of Mom on Christmas morning.

11:15 a.m.: Shame takes the wheel. Mother would be horrified that I’ve spent $9 on a plastic storage bin when I have perfectly good used cardboard boxes at home. I turn the car, drive to another store to look for a better price. Buy a different plastic storage bin for $6.89. Reduce the guilt by $2.11.

11:45 a.m.: Am almost home when I remember the 20 percent off coupons I have for a different store. Drive there and, since I’m saving so much, buy two storage bins. Why not commit to a real system? I think: one bin for used Bubble Wrap, one for used gift wrap. I can almost feel Mom’s pride, which makes me equal parts happy that I’m pleasing her and irritated that I’m succumbing to her.

12:25 p.m.: Take a detour to a different branch of the same 20 percent off store to see if they happen to have the bins I just bought only both with purple lids, since the last store had only one purple lid and one green lid, and as long as I’m investing in a system, everything should match. I spend most of the drive trying to decide if Mom’s winning because I’m being frugal while buying systems to save scraps of everything, or if I’m winning because I’m developing my own system, which is superior to her system.

12:45 p.m.: This branch has one with a purple lid, but it’s a different brand, so the purple probably won’t match, and the bins will surely be unstackable. It’s way too much effort to run out to the car in the parking lot to do a color and stackability check of what I already own, so I buy four new bins with the extra coupons I have in my purse—one bin with the potentially unmatching purple lid, two with orange lids, in case the purple’s all wrong, and one with a blue lid—thinking I could also expand the system to include a bin for flattened used tissue paper, in which case I could keep one purple, one orange, and one blue and go with a splash-of-color storage tub theme. I no longer feel Mom’s pride. Now I feel her inner conflict. Part of her would cheer my ingenuity and stamina; part of her would lecture me about all the silly, unnecessary expense.

1:17 p.m.: Drive back to store number one. Now that I might be committing to a three-bin system, I need to make sure there isn’t something better that I didn’t consider on my first pass. Store number one, in fact, has a plastic drawer system, which I didn’t look at before, which could be used not only for Bubble Wrap scraps and pre-used gift wrap, but rescued tissue paper and recycled bows. I buy the drawer system in two different heights and depths because I don’t remember the dimensions of my cabinet space at home and certainly don’t want to waste time driving home and measuring. I channel more inner turmoil from Mom. She’d be mortified by all the charges, except that she’s also a world-class shopper and can get into the joy of the hunt as much as anyone. She taught me to keep shopping when the shopping’s done. She’d be ill, but thrilled about all the possibilities stuffed in my car.

2:00 p.m.: I sit at the kitchen counter and calculate: I spent $97.89 on plastic storage systems today. This includes one $17.99 set of stacking drawers, which I’m keeping, and $79.90 in drawers, bins, and multicolored lids, which are filling the back seat and trunk of my car and will need to be returned.

I pick up the scrap of used Bubble Wrap that started it all, put it in the top drawer of the new $17.99 drawer set to which I’m committing, and sit back to admire it. The manufacturer’s label with its UPS code is stuck right on the front of the drawer and ruins the whole pristine look. I try to peel it off, but only part of the top layer of the label comes off. I try to scrape the rest off with my fingernails. I take the Bubble Wrap out, hold the drawer under hot water, scrub the label with dish soap, scouring powder, and a Brillo pad. I work at it with a knife, Formula 409, and nail polish remover. Now there’s a big scratched patch where I’ve been scrubbing, clawing, and scraping, still covered with a thin, sticky film of glue.

I march into my home office and miraculously find a pack of large self-stick labels. I stick one on the front of the plastic drawer to cover the whole scratched, sticky area, and write Bubble Wrap in Sharpie.

The words aren’t centered on the label. Again I hear Mom’s voice. This time she’s admonishing me with “Anything worth doing is worth doing well.” As irritating as it is to still need to please her, I still need to please her.

I peel off the part of the label that will come off. Cover with a new label and, more carefully this time, write Bubble Nrap. The W looks like an N, so I write a new label. And then another new one and then . . .

4:30 p.m.: I decide the label should be made on the computer. Four failed printing attempts later—including one in which the sticky part of a whole sheet of labels gets welded to the roller thing inside my printer and I have to spend another hour with the online troubleshooting guide learning how to unstick it—I have a label. It’s 7:00 p.m. I have achieved one label on one plastic storage drawer: Buble Wrap.

Misspelled. I quit.

One Bubble Wrap scrap used up my whole day, and by the time I’m done driving back to all the stores and standing in customer service lines to return all the storage system versions I don’t want, it will have used up my whole weekend. It will use even more time next month as the credit card statements come in, and all those charges and credits have to be reconciled with my new stack of receipts. A month-long drama, launched by the classic primal urge to please Mom, respect Mom, and emulate Mom, all while figuring out how to be my own unique person, which I know is Mom’s deepest wish. Honoring and rejecting, synchronizing and separating. Wound through every minute of my life. Mom’s impact as unbreakable as if it were wrapped in its own perfectly good little piece of Bubble Wrap.

I can picture Mom now, three thousand miles away in a different time zone, tossing in her sleep. I can almost see her wrestle awake, stare at the ceiling, and ask that sweet ancient insane middle-of-the-night Mom question:

“Do you suppose she ever thinks of me?”