So, sometime last year, I was unloading the shopping with my sister in the kitchen. It was going nice and smoothly and quickly, because we had a little system going on between us. It’s too hard for my tiny brain to explain in words, so I shall just get to the point.
All of the bags were unloaded, and everything was put away, except the Nutri-Grain bars. They were still in their box on the counter. So, being the lovely younger sister that I am, I offered to put them away. (Okay, a small white lie there. My sister told me to, and after some protesting, I gave in and set off to do the task in hand…)
I undid the first box fine, and put the Nutri-Grain bars in their allocated tray. But then it came to the second box, and things just went downhill from there. I decided the box would be easier to flatten for recycling if I opened the tabs rather than using the flap the Nutri-Grain folks designed and put there for easier opening.
I felt rather hardcore as I totally ignored the proper way of opening the box and slid my finger under the side tab. I felt the oh-so-familiar pain of getting a paper cut. I gritted my teeth and exhaled loudly. Where the box of doom had broken skin and practically cut open my finger, there was a mixed feeling of stinging and itching.
I hate that. Because you just know if you scratch an itch that’s stinging, it won’t turn out so well.
I decided to be a wimp and put a plaster on it to stem the blood flow and, using my middle finger, tried to undo the flap again.
Then, out of nowhere. SLIT. My middle finger was now in stinging/itching agony – Right on the bend.
Again, I decided to just plaster it up, and continued with the task at hand. I was going to undo the stupid box whether it liked it or not. So, using my left hand this time, I tried to undo the flap. It was going well! I was quarter of the way opening it, halfway, three quarters… SLIT. It got me again.
Now I was angry. This piece of card had now broken me three times, and let’s face it: Paper cuts are small slits of pure evil. And I had three of the stupid things.
After putting yet another plaster on my battle wound, my sister was laughing at me. I’m glad she found it funny because I certainly didn’t at the time.
I disappeared from the kitchen and went into the cupboard beneath the stairs. I took a hammer off of the shelf and went back into the kitchen holding it, looking like I was about to commit murder.
I found the box in the recycling pile. In my short absence, my sister had so nicely undone the box for me. I knew which one it was. It was the one with my DNA all over the edges. I picked it up, and with a hasty, “I’ll be right back,” I unlocked the back door and exited the house.
When I was outside, I placed the box on the floor, and glared at it. Then, raising the hammer to roughly shoulder level, I smacked it down onto the box, then repeated this process several times until it was a mangled wreck of broken card, begging for mercy.
I didn’t give it any mercy.
I carried on for a few more swings until I was sure the neighbours were worrying about my sanity.
Then, feeling much better after attacking the wretched thing, I picked up the remains and walked back in the house, dropping the battered wreck in the recycling pile, and returning to the cupboard to deposit the hammer.
I can honestly say that I’ve never touched a Nutri-Grain bar since.
All of the bags were unloaded, and everything was put away, except the Nutri-Grain bars. They were still in their box on the counter. So, being the lovely younger sister that I am, I offered to put them away. (Okay, a small white lie there. My sister told me to, and after some protesting, I gave in and set off to do the task in hand…)
I undid the first box fine, and put the Nutri-Grain bars in their allocated tray. But then it came to the second box, and things just went downhill from there. I decided the box would be easier to flatten for recycling if I opened the tabs rather than using the flap the Nutri-Grain folks designed and put there for easier opening.
I felt rather hardcore as I totally ignored the proper way of opening the box and slid my finger under the side tab. I felt the oh-so-familiar pain of getting a paper cut. I gritted my teeth and exhaled loudly. Where the box of doom had broken skin and practically cut open my finger, there was a mixed feeling of stinging and itching.
I hate that. Because you just know if you scratch an itch that’s stinging, it won’t turn out so well.
I decided to be a wimp and put a plaster on it to stem the blood flow and, using my middle finger, tried to undo the flap again.
Then, out of nowhere. SLIT. My middle finger was now in stinging/itching agony – Right on the bend.
Again, I decided to just plaster it up, and continued with the task at hand. I was going to undo the stupid box whether it liked it or not. So, using my left hand this time, I tried to undo the flap. It was going well! I was quarter of the way opening it, halfway, three quarters… SLIT. It got me again.
Now I was angry. This piece of card had now broken me three times, and let’s face it: Paper cuts are small slits of pure evil. And I had three of the stupid things.
After putting yet another plaster on my battle wound, my sister was laughing at me. I’m glad she found it funny because I certainly didn’t at the time.
I disappeared from the kitchen and went into the cupboard beneath the stairs. I took a hammer off of the shelf and went back into the kitchen holding it, looking like I was about to commit murder.
I found the box in the recycling pile. In my short absence, my sister had so nicely undone the box for me. I knew which one it was. It was the one with my DNA all over the edges. I picked it up, and with a hasty, “I’ll be right back,” I unlocked the back door and exited the house.
When I was outside, I placed the box on the floor, and glared at it. Then, raising the hammer to roughly shoulder level, I smacked it down onto the box, then repeated this process several times until it was a mangled wreck of broken card, begging for mercy.
I didn’t give it any mercy.
I carried on for a few more swings until I was sure the neighbours were worrying about my sanity.
Then, feeling much better after attacking the wretched thing, I picked up the remains and walked back in the house, dropping the battered wreck in the recycling pile, and returning to the cupboard to deposit the hammer.
I can honestly say that I’ve never touched a Nutri-Grain bar since.
0 comments:
Post a Comment