It's bad enough that I have to use a stool to reach anything in my house. Standing at an amazonian (note: sarcasm) 5 foot 3 inches, most objects that reside higher than my kitchen counter are out of reach without some type of elevation on my part.



This slight against my cooking persona is only increased when I find myself experiencing severe difficulty in opening a jar of spaghetti sauce.

Homemade lasagna was on the menu - all of the veggies were chopped and prepped. Everything was ready to go except the sauce.

I used a rag. Nothing. I ran it under hot water. Nothing. I glared profusely at it (surely that would work, I thought). Still nothing.

Just as I was about to rain brimestone down upon it, I received a call from a friend of mine who was stopping by that night. At last! I could foist the damnable thing off on him.



That jar was truly made of the devil.

He twisted it. Nothing. He used his shirt. Nothing. He glared at it (surely that would work, he thought). Nothing.

Finally (finally!) the combined hate emanating off the both of us must have been enough to crack it's sealed resolve.

This incident brought to my realization the following:

I need a life.