Our lives these days are pushed along at break-neck speed, mainly because of all the high-tech, computerized devices we encounter at every turn. Bar codes are a good example of how technology has sped up the check out process at most retail stores.
Each item has one of those little paper bar code tags glued to it, so the checkout clerk can scan your items in record time. That’s the good news. The bad news is that you need a degree in chemical engineering to remove those little tags from your newly acquired possessions. What’s up with that?
A few days ago, I accidentally broke my ceramic salt shaker—the one with the pretty blue flowers on it that matches my dinnerware. Yes, I know—bad luck. I dumped the broken pieces in the trash, tossed a handful of salt over my left shoulder for good measure, and called an 800 number to order a replacement.
I was delighted when the new shaker arrived; unfortunately, it had one of those bar code stickers stuck to the side. Just the sight of it sent chills down my spine! Everyone knows those things are impossible to remove.
I tugged at the corner gently, trying not to tear the paper; but lost that battle, as the top layer separated, leaving me with a thin layer of paper over a thick layer of glue. I clawed desperately at the sticky residue with my fingernails, but only managed to reshape it into a brown glob.
Moving along to the chemical phase, I washed the shaker inside and out with detergent; but the gummy glob remained. Next, I tried window cleaner; perhaps the ammonia would do the trick. Nope—no luck. Scouring powder, I thought. Surely that will work. Not a chance. I now had grimy little particles mixed in with the sticky glue.
In a last-ditch effort, I dashed out to the work shop in search of sand paper. I wasn’t fooling around anymore! But that turned out to be a mistake; now I had big gritty particles in addition to little gritty particles mixed in with the steadfast glue.
I gave up, washed and filled the shaker with salt, and put it on the dinner table. I figured in maybe five or ten years, after a few more washings, it was bound to come off.
At dinner that night, my husband asked, “Hon, would you pass me the salt?”
“Sure,” I replied, handing him the brand new shaker.
“You need to let go,” he said, trying to remove it from my hand.
“I can’t, it’s stuck.”“What do you mean, it’s stuck?”
“It’s the glue from the bar code label,” I explained.
“You mean you didn’t even wash it?” he was dumb enough to ask.
I glared at him. I should have thrown the stupid shaker at him. And I would have, too, if it wasn’t permanently attached to my hand.
