Corkscrewed

I love living alone.

With one exception.

Opening things.

Let me explain.

I’m not talking about a jar, which is Opening Things 101.

I’m great at opening jars.

Jars of roasted peppers and bread-and-butter pickles are my jam.

Actually, so is jam.

I can get inside any jar you throw at me.

I don’t waste time tapping the lid on the side of the counter. Nor do I bother with those plastic circles that are supposed to grip the lid.

There are diaphragms that are easier to use.

Remember diaphragms?

It’s not a bad analogy.

Lids are barrier methods for roasted peppers.

To return to point, when I need to open a jar, I use a secret weapon:

A corkscrew.

I flip up the two wings, expose the corkscrew, and jam it through the lid, breaking the vacuum seal.

Also it makes a festive pop.

Like champagne for middle-aged women.

The only problem is if you don’t eat enough roasted peppers, then rust will form around the hole in the lid, which may lead to botulism.

Homemade Botox!

Who says I can’t cook?

Meanwhile the solution is obvious.

Eat more roasted peppers.

But enough of my bragging about opening jars.

Because I never met a pump bottle I can open.

I’ve been fighting with one all morning, an expensive face wash that comes in a white container with a white pump top, and on the cap is a white two-sided arrow with white letters that read, Open or Stop.

Who can read white letters on a white background?

You know what we call that?

A piece of paper.

Mother Mary would say, “Thanks for nothing.”

Plus the opposite of Open is Closed, not Stop, which is proof that I’m smarter than a pump bottle.

But I still can’t open it.

I twisted the cap to Open, but it went around and around like a whirligig. Then I twisted the cap to Stop, but the same thing happened. I pushed it up and down, twisting at the same time, but that didn’t work either.

Neither did profanity, which surprised me.

The last time this happened I broke the cap, pulled out the straw inside, and used it like a dropper to get the goop on my face.

My sink was a mess.

But my face was clean.

And I look on the bright side.

It still wasn’t worth keeping Thing One or Thing Two.

Worse than pump bottles are plastic clamshells.

First off, whoever called them clamshells never met a clamshell.

Clamshells are easier to open.

But nobody can open a plastic clamshell, which I hate.

Plastic clamshell, shuck you.

Sorry.

Batteries come in a plastic clamshell, and it’s impossible to get inside. The other day I clawed at the clamshell, trying to pry it open, then I used a scissors and tried to cut the edges, but the plastic was too thick.

In the end, I gave up.

I needed batteries for the remote, but I took them out of another remote.

Procrastination is as effective as profanity.

As in, not at all, but I’m not stopping either.

By the way, don’t think I’m having this problem because of my age.

Some packages were always impossible to open.

Like I remember buying Barbie dolls for Francesca when she was little.

Barbie came in a plastic clamshell, which made no sense.

Why vacuum-seal a doll?

And Barbie was tied down like a hostage.

Hostage Barbie!

God forbid Barbie move one iota in transit.

Seriously there were twist ties at her throat, wrists, and ankles.

I never want to meet the person who packages Barbie.

I’m telling you, this person is a control freak.

Or maybe a quality-control freak.

I was talking to my friend Katie about how hard it is to open things, and she told me about a tool you can order that opens plastic clamshells.

I’m betting it comes in a plastic clamshell.

Look for Lisa’s new best-selling domestic thriller, “What Happened to the Bennetts.” Also, look for Lisa’s best-selling historical novel, “Eternal,” in paperback. Francesca’s critically acclaimed debut novel, “Ghosts of Harvard,” is also in paperback.