Every cap I touch immediately goes on the lam. Like Charlie on the MTA, they disappear, never to return again.
Admittedly, I have a bit of an issue with caps.
For example, the milk container has a twist-top cap that is out to get me. It plays a little game of opening relatively easily after a few tries and just when I am giving myself a butterfly hug, I am faced with level two of the opening procedure. A circular ring-like contraption that seals the pouring spout is waiting for me to insert a finger into one of the circles and pull. Even though, after years of trying, I know the outcome I always fall into the “This time I can do it” trap.
I begin by making a fist and inserting my forefinger into the white plastic circle. A deep breath is followed by a full-force yank that locks my finger into place but does not contribute to opening the carton. Once, I yanked so hard that my fist came back and punched me in the face. But it didn’t open the carton.
At this point, I admit defeat and grab my opener utensil, insert it into the circle and the stopper flies across the counter and ends up — well I don’t know where. There must be a secret cabinet that only caps can see and they just snuggle together there, probably making fun of me for doing the same thing over and over instead of just using the opener in the first place.
It’s become a ritual now and I refuse to give up hope that one day I will open it on my own. And perhaps on that day the stopper will not fly away to Neverland; it will remain on my finger or at least fall on the wooden floor where I can have the satisfaction of retrieving it before the cat does.
The larger issue for me is that during these “opening” ceremonies I often get an idea for a story I want to write, or remember the name of the girl with the beautiful red curls who sat next to me in fourth grade, only to have them fly across the kitchen with the cap.
Maybe they will return on the day I open the milk on my own.
Email patriciabunin@sbcglobal.net. Follow her on X @patriciabunin and at patriciabunin.com.
