Yesterday I dropped a bag of groceries on my bare feet. Had it been anyone else in the whole WIDE WORLD, it might have been a parcel of marshmallows, bunches of parsley and ten or so Kool-Aidâ„¢ packets – perhaps several teensy fluffy pillows? ‘Twas I, though, so it was a bag full of one-pound tin cans (at least nine). The sailor-like invectives flew in a blue cloud about the kitchen, as I bemoaned the inferior quality of those damn grocery sacks with handles and how they break at the most inconvenient moments. And I did the dance of the bruised (must be said as two syllables in Shakespearean fashion) feet. Yes, it might seem illogical or contraindicated to dance on your bruised (remember- two syllables) feet, but one cannot help it. Woe is me.

Here’s the best part: The bag did not break. I, through my extraordinary and UNEQUALLED talent, had managed to empty the bag’s contents on my feet, WITHOUT BREAKING A THING! I’m magic, a little. Some day I will learn to use my powers for good (like Oprah).