Had you seen me a week ago Tuesday morning, you might have thought I had peed my pants, because I had an accident. The kind of accident that involves a car. And bottled water.
I was driving down the highway, when I decided to open my bottle. Stupid, yeah, I know. But My Firstborn was sleeping so soundly in the passenger’s seat, and I didn’t want to wake her.
So I reached over with my right hand, and I started wrestling with the cover. After all, I figured, I’m a young (ish), strong guy; I should be able to undo a water bottle one-handed.
So I’m sitting here in the car, one hand on the water bottle, one hand on the wheel, and both eyes on the road– I may be stupid, but I’m not crazy, not usually, anyhow. And it’s not working. So I ratchet up the effort. New water bottle, you know, and I just couldn’t break the seal. I’m pulling on the cap with my right hand, steadying the wheel with my left, trying to keep the car going in a straight line at 70 MPH with other cars all around me.
And the cap slips, it moves, just a smidge. Ah! I’m making progress!
So I’m still pulling on the cap with one hand, the other on the wheel. The car’s still going in a straight line, but I’m not making any more progress with the water-bottle cap. I give one more glance at my Firstborn and consider waking her up and asking her to open up my water bottle for me, before formulating my master plan to deal with the water-bottle cap.
I hold the water bottle gently between my legs, turning the cap with my right hand, my left still on the wheel, my eyes still on the road. And it actually begins to work! But there’s not enough friction between my jeans and the plastic of the water bottle. So I apply more pressure with my legs, push down with my hand and turn in one giant surge…
And the cap comes off and a whole mouthful of water comes spewing out of the bottle all over my pants.
A cold feeling rushed all over my… uh… seat. But the car was still going in a straight line down the highway at 70 MPH.
And at least I got a nice drink of water out of it.
P.S. Since this post came out short, I’d like also to relate to you a cute Jewish joke, recently told me by a fun-and-a-little-crazy Jewish lady I know.
Mr. and Mrs. Rosenthal decided to have the Cohens and Liebermans over for Sabbath evening dinner. Before leaving in the morning, they left instructions with their housekeeper to please set the table for six. But when Mr. Rosenthal returned after work, he found the diningroom table extended and set for ten, with a note from the housekeeper explaining that Mrs. Cohen had called and that she was bringing the Knishes and Kreplachs.
(Ba dum bum.)