SWIFFER: IS THERE ANYTHING IT CAN'T DO?
Yes, I will explain the Swiffer reference. But first, some background.

This weekend, we formally moved. On Saturday and Sunday, Bradykins and I made countless trips between the Upper East Side and our new apartment in West New York, lugging boxes; yesterday, the movers came. While he supervised the move and led the moving truck to the faraway land of New Jersey, I stayed at home and got the apartment ready for its next tenant.

That means I spent my Presidents Day:

* repainting two accent walls;

* packing, trashing, and recycling;

* and scrubbing, scouring, wiping, vacuuming, and mopping. By the way, I probably should have thought about tackling the oven a day or two earlier, but when one doesn't cook, one doesn't think about such things.

And by mid-afternoon, we were done. All of our stuff was in the new apartment, and my home of the last four years was ready for the super's inspection, which it passed with flying colors.

Several hours later, we (and a friend we had dragged with us and put to work) decided to cross back into Manhattan for a few drinks at The Ritz. Brady left after one drink, but I stayed for a few -- and only a few -- more before heading back to the ferry.

It was still early, and I was still pretty damn sober. Well, by my standards, that is. I was heading home to my partner and my new apartment. Life was good.

And then the boat docked at Port Imperial, New Jersey. Along with several dozen other passengers, I strolled out of the ferry terminal, walked down the sidewalk, and...

Stumbled over.

I barely managed to not plant my face in the Belgian block -- although the corner of the frame of my glasses actually made a tiny metallic click as it came in slight contact with the ground. That was a good thing, because a few years ago I wasn't quite that fortunate, and spent several days doing an imitation of The Invisible Man. But to break my fall, I badly bruised my right hand, and I skinned my left knee... even tearing a hole through the leg of my pants.

As I picked myself up, I tried to regain a tiny bit of dignity with my fellow passengers, the rest of whom had managed to remain upright.

"Uneven pavement," I said, for some reason thinking that they would pick up on the irony in my words... you know, because people blame things like 'uneven pavement' for their own clumsiness, and I was sure that they'd find my verbal recovery humorous.

Except they didn't. They apparently took it seriously. Meaning they not only saw me fall down for no reason, but then thought I was trying to blame... uneven pavement.

Memo to self: next time, to avoid ridicule, just stay on the ground and pretend you're having a stroke.

Of course, a few minutes later when I limped through the front door, Bradykins was not all that sympathetic. Still, he did treat my bleeding knee and bandage me up. That was nice.

But... well... an occasionally clumsy person -- that would be me -- should really keep bandages around the house. Just in case. Because the bandage I wore to bed last night was made out of a Swiffer pad and duct tape.

And is this a good time to add that, in the confusion of the moment, the antibacterial ointment we put on the wound before bandaging it turned out to be Cortaid? Ah well. The wound didn’t itch, so it's all good.

Injuries aside, I'm a happy man. I've now got a great apartment, with a big second bedroom. The place will be perfect when Becky and Timothy come to New York in May to claim their Lammy! I ask for nothing in return.

Except maybe gauze.