All I want is a tuna sandwich.

I massacred it.

I want a tuna sandwich.  That’s sounds sensible.

Albacore tuna, chopped dill, small clove of minced onion, salt and pepper, soupçon Dijon mustard, all good. Well, wrong.

My left hand does everything, from mouthwash, mail, dinner with the dogs, and blowing my hair with one hand. The right hand is DOA, it just sits there. Actually, there’s movement there; the ball works well, exercise-wise. But, alas, my right arm is stiff.

The StarKist brand takes 12 oz. of tuna. Mighty big. The Hamilton Beach can opener for lefties (or, righties) is hard. “Open cans of all types and sizes effortlessly,” it boasts. Not tuna. Maybe it’s the mechanism, maybe it’s the cut and cutting lever. After all, I’m leftie. Sometimes, my little brain is staticky, short-circuit as it were. I’m livid.

The junk drawer is a can opener, I reason. The knob and grip handles takes two hands.

Much swearing. I rooted around of a G.I. can opener with one hand. Secure the tuna with my left foot and balance the weight with one hand. The cans are sharp. Nada.

Finally, the bottle opener. Little shards of metal shavings are not good. In the garbage can it goes. Perfectly good tuna, too. 

Plan B.