I'm so totally hardcore domestically crippled.

I can't walk through half my kitchen right now. It's not because it's an impenetrable mess (it's a very penetrable mess, thank you), but because I dropped a bottle in there last night.

Now, I know your first thought: So what? The bottle fell, it probably bounced a few times, and then got stuck under the fridge. Quit whining, pick up your fridge, and recover the thing.

OK, but here's why I can't do that... the bottle broke.

Yeah. Unusual behavior for a bottle. Shattered into hundreds of pieces. Poor manners, but a very fine reenactment of what inevitably happens to the heart of any lady foolish enough to date me.

The bottle broke last night. I grabbed some nearby trash and used it to "sweep" the pieces of the bottle into a small pile. Now they're just sitting there, staring at me. It's effing intimidating.

I would have cleaned it up entirely, but I didn't.

The bigger pieces of glass don't scare me. You know that feeling you get when somebody's pointing a gun at-ish your thorax? We all do. And we all know that it isn't scary. You have this big threat right in front of you, but it's not a complicated situation. The only thing the other person could do to make you uncomfortable is blow a hole through your lungs. It stings, and also you die. Otherwise, it's harmless.

What we have so far is the following math: Big Thing + Danger = No Fear.

But what if it's a little thing? Do we react the same way?

The little pieces of glass frighten me severely. You know that feeling you get when you're pretty sure your waiter spat in your food? You have that feeling because he did. That's why. You also feel scared. You have no idea what kind of pathogens will make it into your body by way of waiter spittle in your caviar. You're sick for getting caviar anyway, and it's weird that you were able to find a restaurant that serves caviar under the responsibility of waiters who would spit in your food. I'm not saying you're a liar - just that I find this whole thing suspicious. You should consider tightening up your story.

What we can add to our previous math is this math: Small Thing + Familiar Environment = Terrifying.

To ensure we're all "on the same page" here, let's consider the two math things side by side:

1. Big Thing + Danger = No Fear

2. Small Thing + Familiar Environment = Terrifying

Do you see where I'm going with this? Of course you do!

You're in much more danger of being killed (or worse) by the waiter's mouth juice than you are by getting your lungs exploded.

Short. Sweet. Logical.

This all makes so much sense that you surely know where I'm going next.

Yes, just as I've demonstrably proven the Big Things are OK and Small Things are Scary argument through the deft use of math and science, I can show that the same Big vs. Small dichotomy exists for pieces of glass as well. Before I do, though, let's all take a moment's rest to observe what a hideous word "dichotomy" is. Everybody, please stop using it. Thank you.

The biggest piece of glass (on my floor - not in the world or whatever) is curved and pointy. I'd say it's about the size of a baby rat, except shaped more like glass.

If I step on that sucker, I'm going to know it. It'll pierce my foot and probably leave me partially disabled on a temporary or permanent basis. I can't think of any other kind of basis. If I missed one, let me know. Otherwise, I'll assume temporary and permanent cover all our options.

Stepped on the wrong way, a piece of glass like that could slice one of your toes off. You wouldn't even know anything was wrong until the pain hit and you started bleeding everywhere.

Stepped on the right way... uh... never mind. I don't think there's a "right" way to step on a big piece of glass.

Contrast this obvious danger with the smaller pieces. The things on my floor are so effin' small that it looks like they could pass right into my bloodstream after being stepped on. Then the glass would move around, race through my veins, reach my brain or my heart or something, and then tear it to shreds.

You could even inhale the smallest pieces. At that size, they aren't even really "pieces" anymore. They're specks. Of death.

And small.

Small specks of death.

What if one only made it partially in, and sat there for a few days? You'd think you were fine because you hadn't died yet from exposure to the glass hazard, but then you'd go golfing, twist your ankle just right to dislodge the glass speck, and then collapse on the green after being eviscerated by a microscopic piece of bottle.

Frozen. That's what I am. Frozen with horror almighty by this menace in my home.

I don't know what to do. I know someone who'd be happy to come over and lay some tile over the glass. This would be the easiest option by far, but I don't want to do it because I don't know who's going to live in this condo next. A good person? A bad person? A family of children? I could never live with myself if a whole family of children was hurt by my mistake while trying to figure out why part of the floor in the kitchen is about six inches taller than the rest.

Once a year, every year, a friend of the family pays a visit to the high school where my mother teaches French. He's from Kenya, and his name is Kennedy Wambalamba. He gives a speech to the students about the circumcision ritual in the area where he grew up. What this has to do with French is anybody's guess, but the kids love it.

When he was circumcised, he stood in a line with other boys of the same maturity, and raw goat intestines were placed around their necks. There wasn't any anesthetic out that way, so they needed to be clever when it came to pain management. Apparently, the stench of the intestines is so awful that the boys can't focus on the minor surgery being performed "down there." From what I understand, use of the goat intestines started out as a means of distracting the boys from the circumcision, but I believe that, down the years, it's changed so that it's the circumcision which acts as a distraction from the goat intestines.

It's brilliant. It's brilliant, and I thought about stealing the idea. Not because I want to circumcise people who stop by my home. No. That would be awful.

If I were to steal the idea, I'd just lay raw goat intestines on either side of the bottle, thereby discouraging someone (like me) from trying to get too close to the Danger Zone. It'd be practical because the intestines would stay there. Without goats to carry them around, they'd be pretty useless as internal organs. Hell, without goats, they're just external organs.

Should it prove too difficult to build over the bottle or flank it with goat intestines, then I might sweep it up and throw it away. As we speak (I don't know who "we" is in this case, and I'm certainly not speaking, so this is pretty mysterious), I'm working on a plan to get the broken glass out of here. From where I'm sitting, I can see a trash bag and a bunch of other stuff. I figure the bottle could go in the trash bag, but that's putting the cart before the horse, or so they say. I shouldn't even begin to think about where to put the bottle until I can figure out how to get it there.

I've never had to face a domestic crisis of this magnitude. I don't know what to do. Should I call the exterminator? Is this what they do? I mean, can I put a hit out on the bottle and count on some domestic crisis management team to clean it up for me? What about a plumber? What do they do? I know they use wrenches. I don't know what a wrench is, but I know they use them.

Is a "wrench" a tool for disposing of glass shards?

Can I get a spray for this at the store? Like, in the pets section? I saw something for dogs that came in a bottle and, according to the label, "Cleans up most messes." I looked for a list of the messes, but found nothing. I'm not going to lay down three dollars without first knowing exactly which messes the spray will clean up.

Some friends of mine got sunburned while out at sea, and they put butter on their skin. They said it stopped their skin from hurting.

I think that, maybe, if I took some butter and used it on my feet, then I could just walk on the bottle. A dab of butter on the bottle, too. I'd be protected in both directions. I called "information" (STUPID NAME FOR WHAT IT IS) and asked if broken bottles were like sunburns and if butter would stop bottles from hurting me. The person I spoke with obviously didn't have the answer, 'cause each time I asked, she transferred me to a drug abuse hotline.

The people at the drug abuse hotline didn't know either, but they did invite me out to see their facility. Yeah, thanks. I'll go sightseeing as a VIP when I've got this homergency taken care of.

I should start charging it rent. It's already stayed in that spot for twenty-four hours, and it's kept me right out. I'll be a monkey's uncle before I let a bottle take advantage of me like this.

If it refuses to pay, then I'll call a newspaper reporter and say that I have a simulacrum of the Virgin Mary on the floor of my kitchen, and that it's weeping, and that it's also not paying rent.

People will fly in from around the world to see the miracle. Should enough people pass through my kitchen after having left a suggested donation of ten dollars (nobody gets in without leaving a donation), someone would eventually notice that it is not, in fact, the Virgin Mary, but, rather, a broken ginger-ale bottle. Then this person, in defense of all things sacred, will throw my miracle away.

It could take months. It could take years.

But my plan is elegant.

And so simple.