Okay, who's the fiend who dreamed up all the diabolical packaging
that plagues us these days? I've searched Google, but no luck.
If I could identify the perpetrator, I'd have him (or her) shrink
wrapped and encased in a titanium-strength corrugated, duct-taped
carton and air lifted to a desert island, with only a pair of
manicure scissors to use as an escape tool.
It all started years ago with childproof caps on medicine bottles,
which I am convinced have been solely responsible for sending
a multitude of senior citizens off their rockers and into rockers
at facilities for the mentally unstable. Dementia? Hardening of
the arteries? Depression? No way. It's those damn plastic caps
that refuse to turn even when we push down hard as instructed
— or at least as hard as we can push now that arthritis has
made our hands practically useless. I personally have found a
way to keep from going off the deep end trying to open a childproof
cap. I simply ask a child to do it for me. Works every time.
And what about those resealable bags that refuse to reseal? You
can't tell me that they weren't developed by a gremlin with a
macabre sense of humor who cackles gleefully just picturing these
bags leaking and spilling their contents all over our refrigerator
shelves and cupboards.
As for those ubiquitous Styrofoam peanuts we've all come to hate,
if you're successful in opening any carton containing them, they
will immediately explode forth and cover every surface, high and
low, including the inaccessible spaces under the piano, the sofa,
and beds (yes, they have an uncanny ability to navigate around
corners, up and down stairs, and apparently even through closed
doors and drawers). Open one of those cartons in your kitchen
in January, and you'll still be picking up Styrofoam peanuts when
you're searching for your bikini in that old chest in your cellar
in July.
And why must so many products, from a small box of paper clips
to an 88-note keyboard, be encased in rigid clear plastic that's
stronger than the material used for bank vaults and more formfitting
and unyielding than Scarlett O'Hara's corset? If you don't have
a blow torch or an electric saw with a diamond blade, good luck
trying to open it.
Then there are those canned products-pet food, sardines, and
such — with a metal tab and ring. You're supposed to lift
the ring (hah!) and pull it back to remove the top of the can.
Who are they kidding? Without a forklift, it's just about impossible.
And, let's face it, how many of us have a forklift in our kitchen
drawers?
Milk and juice cartons also present a challenge. Unscrewing the
cap is easy, but that's just to lull you into a false sense of
accomplishment. Once the cap is off, you're faced with a harmless-looking
foil circle that's adhered over the pouring spout with a substance
that could effectively be used to glue the wings onto the fuselage
of a 747.
You have to destroy the carton in order to pour yourself a glass
of your morning OJ. By then you desperately need destressing,
so you decide to relax to your new Sounds of Nature CD. Big mistake.
When you finally remove the outer cellophane wrap, after breaking
all ten fingernails, can you open the plastic case in which the
CD is snugly nestled? Of course not.
Nothing is easily accessible any more. No wonder I've come to
dread the holidays. King Tut's mummy wasn't as tightly wrapped
as the cheese log I received last Christmas.
I used to love to see the FedEx guy come, laden with gifts for
me. But even in those cute shorts, he has long since lost his
appeal. For the past few years, whenever he rang my bell I'd hide,
hoping he'd go away; but even if he did, he'd always come back.
He was relentless. I finally tried getting a restraining order
against him, but the courts refused. Instead, they sent some men
in white coats who wrapped me in a strait jacket (more damn packaging!),
and took me away.
But please don't send me any get-well gifts. I'll never be able
to open them. They don't let me have any sharp instruments here.
(Rose's new book, The
Stranger in My Mirror and Other Reflections is available by
special order from most book stores, or on the web at www.amazon.com
and www.barnesandnoble.com)
Rose Mula was an executive
assistant, a public relations specialist, and an operations manager
for a New England theater chain before discovering a passion for
writing.
Her work has appeared
in The Saturday Evening Post, Yankee, Modern Maturity, The
Christian Science Monitor, The Reader's Digest, The Philadelphia
Inquirer, The Baltimore Sun, and more than a hundred other
magazines and newspapers. Actually-thousands of newspapers, since
one of her essays, The
Stranger in My Mirror (originally titled, The Stranger
in My House), was reprinted in Ann Landers' nationally syndicated
column in 1999, and after an explanatory exchange with Ms. Landers, an attribution.
Rose's new book, If These Are Laugh Lines I'm Having Way Too Much Fun, is available at bookstores, through online bookstores, and from Pelican Publishing, 800-843-1724. The book was a finalist in USABOOKNEWS.COM's 2006 Best Books Award humor category. Meanwhile, she can reached
by e-mail.
