The last time I might have damaged something in a friend's house was a few years ago, when I kicked back in Katrina's reclining chair and the whole damned thing toppled ass-over-teakettle. I don't recall there being any damage to the chair, and if there was, they're being nice about it. Prior to that, you'd have to go back to the broken plates of childhood to find another breakage incident. Not counting broken noses and women, of course.
Mind you, I am not graceful. Not remotely. I am a lumbering clod. Which brings me to my present mystification: how come my friends break so much of my stuff?
Mind you again, I'm not talking about their kids. When four year old Trevyn pulls a towel bar out of the drywall, I'm not delighted, but this is the tax I pay for having a four year old boy in the house. No, I'm talking about the grown ups. The broken plates and glasses. The broken knife tips and rusted cast iron skillet. The broken leg on my deck bench. The gouges in my new deck. The mascara left on my white guest towels. And yes, the broken bulb I just discovered in my incredibly narrow 12" pendant lights. That was Kiki. I remember her fiddling with it when she was watching me cook.
People can't be this clumsy and rude. My house must be a giant, fragile house of cards, crumbling at the slightest touch.