The electric can opener I inherited lies abandoned in
an unused file cabinet on the back porch. The new one I bought, likewise.
Sometimes they worked; most times, they didn’t. Could it have been the way I
held my mouth, as the saying goes? Maddening!
I even bought
a Pampered Chef can opener—one that, positioned a certain way that I can never
remember, opens from the can instead from the lid. I’ve used it once.
Right now on my countertop, several cans of
soup-makings sit with a white-plastic-handled manual can opener on top. I’m
hoping their proximity will provide good vibes when I ever get around to
actually opening said veggies for said soup.
Corkscrews are also adversaries. Each one I’ve had
works, but holds the cork hostage inside the worm (?) no matter what I do.
Short of cutting the cork out by sawing with a steak knife, I usually leave it
until it’s needed again. Then, whomever is here gets to puzzle out the
solution.
I’ve begun buying tuna in sealed packages and canned
fruit with plastic lids and spoons tucked neatly inside. They’re a breeze to
open.
It’s not my reflexes. I can catch a falling glass
before it hits the floor. Or an aluminum pan of hot enchiladas that folds in my
hand as I take it from the oven.
It’s gotta be that I’m left-handed and these
implements are made by right-handed men.
Now and then—mostly all the time—the computer keeps
me alert by moving the cursor while I’m typing, pulling up a pale screen of
possibilities or skipping about on the page. Just now, the screen moved upward,
my text out of sight. It’s a good thing I live alone. Otherwise, my housemates
might get the idea that I’m yelling at them from another room. If computers had
ears…… oh, dear.
Another adversary is the
neighborhood tom cat, unfixed, who’s found that I feed my cats outside. He lies
in wait behind a shrub, on the far end of a bench, or on the rock step to the
birdbath.
The female—the only cat that’s not
fixed, and who’s had (as of this very day) her third litter by that roaming
roué,--comes to eat, and as soon as I disappear behind the door, he proceeds to
nose her out of the dish.
Like
some females of all species, she moves out of his way until he is sated. Unless
I see him first and spray him with a mixture of vinegar and water. It’s that, or go sit out near the steps with
my bottle. Some days I win; some days he wins. Ambivalence, inconsistency—my
strong suit as far as this goes.
Finally,
Bermuda grass bedevils me by growing back into the space I removed it for
expanding flower beds. “I was here first!” it seems to believe, so I find the
hoe and show it who’s boss. For the moment.
Thank
goodness, kudzu hasn’t gotten a foot-, uh, root-hold in my place. Bermuda,
honeysuckle and privet are all I can handle.
And that’s debatable.
4 comments:
Though I longed to be left-handed when I was a child, and now I notice most creative folks are southpaws, I am thankful I can operate an electric can opener. Otherwise I would starve.
I threw away the one that mangled the cans so badly that I had to use an old screwdriver of Dad's to pry up the lid enough to coax the veggies out. I have two more in the drawer. We'll check those out next time. Thanx for commenting.
I think it is because you're left-handed. Those things aren't made for lefties. Some place we visited, can't remember where, there was a store dedicated to lefties. It had everything imaginable with the left orientation. Maybe you could research can openers for southpaws. I empathize about the Bermuda grass and say, Bad Cat!
It MUST be, Dorothy. Good idea about "tools" for the leftie. I'll see about that. Thanx for commenting.
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