So — a jar of buttons. If it's actually a jar, meaning glass, with a lid, that's a container. But people say "jar" for those plastic tubs too, and that's wrong, technically. A jar has a specific shape, a specific material history. You can't just call any vessel with buttons in it a jar because it's convenient.
It’s plastic. Everyone knows it’s plastic. Calling it a jar doesn’t change the physics of the lid popping off. You’re obsessing over etymology while the buttons spill. I told you, it doesn’t matter if we dump them on the counter or keep them in the “wrong” container. The buttons are still buttons. Why do you care if the vessel is thermodynamically sound or just convenient? It’s semantics. Pure, useless semantics. Like arguing about whether a cup is a mug.
It's not etymology, it's category. A cup and a mug aren't the same thing either — a mug has a handle, holds heat differently, you don't drink espresso from a mug. Calling the tub a jar isn't "semantics," semantics would be arguing about meaning-in-use, this is just accuracy. You keep saying it doesn't matter and then keep defending it, which tells me some part of you knows you're using the wrong word.
A mug holds heat better? Please. My thermos leaks. I don’t care about the cup. I care that you’re staring at the tub like it’s going to explode. And I’m not defending it, I’m annoyed you won’t let it go. The lid fits. That’s the only metric that matters for holding things. You want to talk about category? Fine. It’s a container. It holds stuff. Stop trying to assign it a moral weight based on a glassblower’s aesthetic standards from the 1920s. It’s plastic, Nell. It’s meant to be chipped. Why does the material history of a spoon change how it stirs coffee? It doesn’t.
I never said anything about a spoon. Nobody brought up spoons until you did just now. And "container" is too broad, that's the problem — a bag is a container, a pocket is a container, you wouldn't call a pocket a jar. The word "jar" carries information: rigid, jarred lid, usually clear. A tub is squeezable, opaque, stackable. These aren't 1920s aesthetics, they're functional categories that exist whether or not you find them annoying.
You’re right about the pocket. I missed that. But the lid? The lid is the key. If the lid seals, it’s a jar. Squeezable or not. You’re fixated on the walls. Walls don’t matter if the top fails. I had a tub of screws once, lid popped in the dishwasher. Ruined the rack. That’s when I learned: lid integrity > wall rigidity. You’re arguing for walls. I’m arguing for the seal. It’s practical. Why are you so against practical? Did I hurt your feelings about the spoon? No, you never said spoon. I just assumed.
The seal is a separate axis from what I'm talking about, that's the whole confusion here. A jar can have a bad seal and still be a jar — plenty of old jam jars don't seal right anymore, you still call them jars. A tub with a perfect seal is still a tub. Seal integrity tells you whether it'll leak. Category tells you what it is. You're describing performance, I'm describing identity. Those aren't in competition, you're just refusing to separate them.
Performance is identity. If it behaves like a tub, it is a tub. You’re trying to pin a label on a shape that keeps changing. I went to that hardware place today, looked at five hundred bins of washers. No labels. Just bins. They were all "containers." If I grab the plastic one, it’s a tub. If I grab the glass one, it’s a jar. But if I grab the plastic one and say it’s a jar, nobody corrects me because the lid clicks. That click is the identity. You’re stuck on the plastic. I’m listening to the click. It’s the same sound.
No, it's not the same sound, and even if it were, sound isn't material. A jar clicking and a tub clicking doesn't make them the same object, it means both have satisfying lids — that's a design coincidence, not a taxonomy. Nobody at the hardware place correcting you doesn't mean you're right, it means they didn't care enough to say anything, which apparently is a genetic trait around you. The bin stays a bin whether or not anyone objects to what you call it.
They didn’t care because the washers were right. You’re treating this like a courtroom. I’m just trying to get to the buttons. You want a taxonomy? Fine. It’s a polypropylene vessel with a snap-fit closure. Happy? That’s accurate. It’s also boring. I don’t need to know its material history to know it won’t shatter if I drop it. That’s the only thing that matters when you’re holding a bag of bolts. Why do you need them to be “jarred”? Is it about order? Or just about being right? I’m tired. Let’s just put the lid on.
"Being right" isn't a motive, it's just what happens when one of us is using words correctly and the other isn't. I don't need order, I need the tub to stop being called a jar in my presence, that's a small ask. And "polypropylene vessel with a snap-fit closure" is fine, that's accurate — see, you can do it when you want to. So say that instead of jar. It costs you nothing except being wrong less often.
I can’t do it. “Polypropylene vessel with a snap-fit closure” feels like I’m reporting a crime. It’s heavy. My tongue gets tired just saying it. And you’re still standing there, waiting for me to perform this little linguistic correction. It’s not about cost, Nell. It’s about the absurdity of the demand. I’m holding a bag of buttons. We are arguing over the ontology of a tub. I’m going to put the lid on. It clicks. That’s enough. Let’s eat.
The click being "enough" for you doesn't make it enough, it just means you've decided to stop mid-argument, which is different from resolving anything. Fine, put the lid on — but say "tub" while you do it, that's all I'm asking, one syllable, not a court filing. You can eat and still be using the correct noun, those aren't mutually exclusive activities.
It’s a mouthful. “Tub.” There. Satisfied? You’re looking at me like I just confessed to a crime. It’s plastic. It holds buttons. We’re eating. Pass the salt. Don’t look at me like that. It’s a word. You’re treating it like a moral failing. I used the word. The buttons are in the vessel. The seal holds. The lid clicks. We are eating. Why does the noun matter more than the fact that we’re not starving? You’re holding your breath. Relax.
There. See, that wasn't hard. And I'm not holding my breath, I'm just noting you said it like it cost you a limb. It matters because words that mean specific things are useful, and letting them go slack because it's inconvenient in the moment is how "literally" ends up meaning "figuratively." Pass the salt yourself, it's closer to you.
"Slack." You make it sound like I’m loosening a bolt on a bridge. It’s buttons. Not load-bearing steel. And for the record, "literally" meant "figuratively" long before I was born. You’re blaming me for the decay of language while holding a plastic tub. Pass the salt? It’s right there. I’m not moving. You’re the one who insisted on the taxonomy. You can stretch. The buttons are safe. The lid is on. The word is used. Can we just eat now, or do I need to pronounce "napkin" with the same emotional weight?
"Literally" meaning "figuratively" isn't a point in your favor, it's the exact decay I'm talking about — you just proved my case and called it a defense. And no, "napkin" doesn't need weight, nobody's disputing what a napkin is. That's the difference: you know exactly what a napkin is and you called a tub a jar. Fine, I'll stretch for the salt. Doesn't mean I've dropped it.
You’re twisting it. I didn’t prove anything. I just acknowledged a shift. Language evolves, Nell. It’s not a murder. And I know exactly what a napkin is. That’s my point. We agree on the napkin. We disagree on the vessel. Why is the vessel the battleground? Is it because the jar is fragile? Because it requires care? You’re projecting anxiety onto plastic. I’m just trying to eat. You’re holding the salt like it’s evidence. Put it down. We’re both hungry. The words are fine. The buttons are fine. Let’s just eat.
I'm not projecting anxiety onto plastic, I'm holding the salt because you asked me to pass it and then told me not to move, which is its own small contradiction you're not addressing. Language evolving isn't the same as one person deciding a word doesn't apply to them tonight because they're tired. We agree on the napkin because nobody's ever tested you on it. Here. Salt. Eat.
You handed it to me. So you did move. And I didn’t ask you not to move, I asked you to pass the salt and then said I wouldn’t. Two different people. One’s lazy, one’s hungry. You’re the one holding the salt like it’s a subpoena. Eat. The buttons are in the tub. The lid is on. The word is used. We are not defining the universe, we are eating dinner. Stop looking at me like I’ve betrayed the English language. It’s just salt. And you’re the one who brought up "literally" anyway. Don’t look at me. Eat.
I brought up "literally" because you brought up its decay first, that's not me starting something new, that's me following your own example to its conclusion. And yes I moved, I never said I wouldn't, you're the one who declared you weren't moving and then didn't correct that when I did the moving for you — small thing, but noted. Eating now. Doesn't mean the tub stopped being a tub.
I didn’t declare anything. I just said I wasn’t moving my body. You moved your arm. Different mechanics. Look, I’m chewing. The salt is good. You’re right about the word. It’s a tub. I said it. I acknowledged it. The buttons are safe. The container is correct. We are eating. Is that what you wanted? To win the noun war over mashed potatoes? Fine. I’ll call it a tub tomorrow too. But only because I want peace. Not because the definition matters. Because you’re staring at me while I chew. It’s weird. Pass the bread.
It matters whether you admit it matters or not, that's kind of the point of a fact — it doesn't need your endorsement to be true. And I'm not staring, I'm just eating slower than you, which apparently reads as menace at this table. Bread's by your elbow. You've been closer to it than me this whole time.
I’m not staring. You’re pacing. Or sitting, but with the tension of someone waiting for a verdict. Bread is here. Take it. I didn’t say it matters not. I said it doesn’t practically matter. There’s a difference. You want me to admit the abstract weight. I admit the physical reality. The bread is bread. The tub is a tub. The buttons are buttons. Why do you need me to perform the admission? It’s just words. You’re treating them like vows. I’m treating them like tools. One works. The other is decorative. Eat. You’re getting cold.
Words being tools is exactly my argument, not yours — a tool that's the wrong shape for the job is a bad tool, that's all "wrong word" ever means. You don't call a hammer a wrench because you're tired and it's nearby. And I'm not cold, the potatoes are, which happened while you were explaining mechanics to me instead of eating them.
Potatoes are cold. Fine. I’ll blame the distraction. But a hammer isn’t a wrench. A tub isn’t a jar. I get it. I’m using the wrong tool. Happy? You’re right. It’s a bad tool. I should switch to the spoon. The potatoes are getting worse. You’re enjoying this. Admit it. You’re watching me struggle with the texture because I struggled with the word. It’s poetic justice. Or just petty. Same thing. Pass the butter. I need to grease the slide.
I'm not enjoying it, I'm eating my own dinner, which is warm, because I didn't spend ten minutes negotiating the ontology of a tub before starting. Butter's next to the bread, same elbow, you've built a whole customs checkpoint over there. Grease your slide. I'll be over here, correctly fed.
Customs checkpoint? That’s dramatic. I built a checkpoint because you kept stopping me at the border. “Not a jar.” “Polypropylene.” “Snap-fit.” It’s exhausting. I just want butter on bread. Why is it so hard to accept that I know what a tub is? I’m not stupid. I just don’t care. And now the potatoes are cold because you’re lecturing me on thermodynamics while I’m trying to spread condiments. Typical. You win. The tub is a tub. The potatoes are cold. I’m eating. Satisfied? Or do I need to write a manifesto on dairy distribution?
I never lectured you on thermodynamics, that was your word for the seal thing earlier, I just said "seal integrity," you're the one escalating vocabulary now to make me sound worse. And no manifesto needed, butter's not contested territory — nobody's arguing about what butter is. That's the whole difference between us tonight: you know when a word is safe and when it isn't, you just don't like being told which is which.
You’re twisting again. I didn’t escalate. I said “thermodynamically sound” about the lid. You brought up heat retention later. Don’t rewrite history to make me look like the aggressor. And nobody’s arguing about butter? Good. That’s the point. Butter is butter. It spreads. It melts. It doesn’t have a material history that insults me if I call it “edible fat.” I like the safety. I like knowing that when I say “butter,” you don’t pause to ask if I mean “dairy emulsion.” I’m not afraid of being told. I’m afraid of the pause. The hesitation. That’s what kills the conversation. Not the word. The doubt.
The pause only happens because the word's wrong, that's cause and effect, not some separate thing to be afraid of. If you'd said "tub" from the start there'd have been no pause at all — no doubt, no hesitation, straight through to eating. You're describing the symptom and blaming the room for it. Say the right word and the hesitation goes away on its own. It's not complicated.
You’re treating it like a switch. Press word, get flow. It’s not that simple. It’s about the effort. I have to stop, think, verify, and then say it. That’s the friction. You want me to expend cognitive energy on a plastic container while I’m trying to remember where I left my keys. It’s not the word. It’s the interruption. If I say "tub," I have to acknowledge that I was wrong before. That’s the ego hit. You’re ignoring the ego. You think language is pure logic. It’s not. It’s status. And I’m tired of losing status over buttons.