Wouldn’t open that is.

If, like me, you’re an average employee in an average job, your average company is kind enough to supply you with free, unlimited, hot, black…

sludge…

er, coffee (I use the term loosely).

I wish it weren’t so, but once a day Monday through Friday, I need a cup of that averageness to get me through the afternoon. And the only way I can make it past the first slurp is with the blessed goodness of two mini-moos – you know, the little single serving of half-n-half with the foil tab you peel back to release its treasure.

 

 

Only, some of them won’t open without the surgical precision of a high-carbon steel scalpel. That danged little tab is supposed to curl up at the lightest brush of my thumb, so I can grasp TAB A, pull back from CONTAINER B, then pour into COFFEE CUP C. But, it’s like I need to hone one finger nail to razor sharpness to get some mini-moos open.

These things are like the constipation of coffee condiments.

Aaaargh!

I pick up a moo and brush my thumb upward against the foil tab. No luck. I grab another and alter my technique, coaxing it, willing it, to curl under the increased pressure of the calloused part of my thumb.

Dang! Beaten again. I throw it back like a trash fish.

I dry my now sweaty thumb. I scan the corral of moos looking for that one that is ripe for pouring. I see it, hiding under another of its unwilling cousins. I snatch it up before it can escape. I raise it before my eyes. The foil tab is already wrinkled, like my slow smile – just a bit, just enough. This must be it, the holy grail of half-n-half. Focus. Steady…

Ahhhh…

Then again, maybe there’s something inherently wrong with a milk product that can survive at room temperature.

Hmmm…