There is water underground

Last night I struggled to get the cap off the meds bottle. I'm not mentally deficient; there really was something wrong with the childproof mechanism. I think I stripped it. My growing frustration was matched by my growing shame. "Here," I thrust the bottle at K. "Open it!" Pause. "Please."

When he couldn't get it open either I knew that the pill bottle engineering had failed miserably, not me.

I pulled out a breadknife and started sawing at the orange plasic. "C'mon, c'mon," I muttered. I felt remorse about not investing in a set of Ginsu knives.

"Would you like to try using my Leatherman?" K's brother asked helpfully.

I shot him a scornful look. "Don't ever tell anyone about this." But the pliers attachment did help pry a keyhole in the rigid plastic. I dumped the last of the pills into my palm and sighed.

My mother would be so proud.*

*She would also be proud that I was ironing a pair of dirty pants to wear to work this morning. "Never iron dirty clothes!" she used to tell me. "It seals in the dirt!" She's right about that. But she also used to warn me against the evils of wearing one's socks inside out ("It makes them wear unevenly!") and wearing "day clothes" to bed at night ("It MAKES them WEAR UNEVENLY!"). She's got her own agendas.