Wendy growled as she tried again. Gripping the lid tight, she twisted… still nothing. The skin of her palm dragged, ripping along her heart line. She winced.
Holding the jar hurt, the thing was too big for her fingers to meet her thumb on the other side. So she had to spread them out to have the greatest chance of surface contact, add in the hopeful action of twisting and it was an extreme stretch, stinging all along the webbing of her fingers.
It was the splits for her hands.
“Come on… undo, damn it,” she shoved the words out. Teeth clenched harder, a stabbing pain on either side of her face attacked.
Pulling the jar in close, she tried at a different angle. This time, her shoulders protested. How could a 500gram jar feel like she was trying to lift twice her weight?
Twist, come on, budge, loosen up… she held her breath and strained.
“Gah!” Wendy gasped for air, her muscles going limp. “I am woman, hear me roar for help,” she grumbled. “This is so pathetic.”
Beside the toaster, the butter was melting into the porous hollows of the English muffin.
“Oh, I give up!” Resisting the urge to hurl the jar into the rubbish bin, she sat it firmly and decisively onto the counter with a clatter and began to eat.
“What are you giving up on? And that better not be cleaning up after yourself,” Mother asked as she walked into the kitchen. “The butter knife goes into the sink, which then needs to be filled with hot water and dishwashing soap, and then?” She paused.
Wendy didn’t play along. “I’m giving up on being an independent woman who eats jam. I need a man to open the jar for me.” Wendy snarled through her mouthful.
Mother gave her a warning look.
Rolling her eyes, she added. “Yes mother, I’ll wash up after I eat my snack. The butter knife was going to join the rest of its comrades in arms after it stabbed its way through jam. But since that’s not going to happen, it can go into early retirement.” With her free hand, she picked up the knife and carried it to the sink.
Mother delivered a dramatic sigh. With practiced ease, she wrapped a tea towel over the lid and twisted.
There was a moment of hope.
“Gah!” Mother gasped for air.
“We need a man. Or an infomercial with the solution to our everyday problem.” Wendy took another bite.
“Have honey,” Mother sat the jar down firmly and decisively onto the counter with a clatter. “You don’t need a man to squeeze a plastic bear bottle.”