The sign was stuck into an open barrel of peanuts in a grocery store. Its large letters proclaimed “This product contains peanuts.”

DUH. Are we really that stupid? Or is it just that everyone is protecting themselves from the lawsuits-to-be?

Now THAT’S something to be afraid of.

I stared at it longer than usual, thinking about what it meant – could there actually be allergic people who would buy a sack of those peanuts and not know that they have bought … peanuts? Have we really come to this?

But, hey, at least most buyers could scoop those peanuts into a bag, take them home, and quickly grab a handful. Easy access like that has been denied to us in many packaged products, not just food. Getting into those impossible-to-open containers has challenged my abilities and has destroyed what used to be infinite patience.

It all started in1982, when some idiot in Chicago opened a bottle of Tylenol, slipped some cyanide into the pills, and poisoned seven people. They never caught the murderer. But the packaging industry was forever changed. And it changed our lives in small, but for me increasingly frustrating ways. Nowadays, I can’t open anything.

I was always the strong pickle jar opener in the family. But for some reason, pickles now seem to have their lids put on by pneumatic impact wrenches — you know, the kind that mechanics use to attach your snow tires.

Oh, I have all types of lid openers.

The rubbery, grippy one supposedly makes turning the lid easier. And I have a few openers that resemble can openers, with a circle of steel teeth around the edge that dig into the lid before you turn. Both models require that you actually have a working wrist. Arthritic, carpal-tunnely wrists don’t cut it.

I often pound the jar from the bottom to thrust the liquid inside against lid. Sometimes that pops the top, but if not, I tap all around the edge with the handle of my heaviest knife or ice cream scoop. After I’ve sufficiently dented the entire perimeter of the lid, I run it under hot water to expand the metal. I paid attention that first week in physics class.

Sometimes even that doesn’t work. Maybe the pickle industry has decided that their gherkins are too precious to be eaten by mere mortals like me. Time to call in the cavalry — in the person of Dear Richard. He’s a brute with bottles and jars. Truth be told, I often walk to the den and just wordlessly hand him a jar. I love a man who knows his job.

I can usually get the top off the vinegar bottle or the orange juice jug, but then I’m stopped by the little seal inside. Oh sure, I can flip up the little half-circle tab, but pull it open? Not even by next Tuesday. I no longer have the thumbs or the wrists to pull that puppy up and free the protective seal. My thumbs are so bad that my endearing children call me “Marcy No-Thumbs” in a raspy voice directly out of The Sopranos.

Oh – and there is one other no-thumbs challenge. You know those plump bags that romaine lettuce comes in? The ones where you rip off the top to reveal the resealable ziplock inside? I bet you have no problem whatsoever prying that plastic zipper apart to grab the head of romaine. And then you re-zip it, and plunk it back in the fridge. Fuggedaboudit. No can do. And that was a rude awakening. It looks so easy, except when wha-chu-got is no thumbs. I might as well ask the cat to do it – he doesn’t have thumbs either.

None of that compares to trying to open bubble packaging. Recently, I bought a curling iron in a long, hard bubble welded to its backing cardboard. I can sometimes bend the cardboard to get in, except that this particular bubble was made from some clear crypton-titanium derivative that was completely unbendable. I was heading for the chain-saw in the garage when Dear Richard pulled into the driveway. He knew by the look on my face that my last strand of patience had just snapped.

Manufacturers constantly preach about their new and improved product – they never mention they have made it utterly impenetrable or that you’ll need first aid by the time you finally get inside.

Come to think of it, remember those peanuts in the shell? Now THERE is a practical container. You snap the little two-eared husk in half and presto – two peanuts inside. And maybe I could actually open them because I’d have to use — are you ready? — two thumbs.

I’ll probably have a half dozen shelled by midnight.

Marcy O’Brien lives in Warren, Pa., with her husband Richard and Finian, their sun-starved Maine Coon cat. She can be reached at Moby.32@hotmail.com.