A day of drear, though at least I haven’t fallen victim to any accidental injuries. So far. See, I was very carefully opening the kitchen cabinet door — you know, the one that’s come unstuck and the mortise fails to keep a sturdy grip on the tenon, meaning the door falls apart if I forget its deformity and open it in haste — when it fell out of joint and onto my middle left toe. It’s suitably purple and gross now. Then yesterday morning, I managed to bang the edge of my satchel into my left eye as I unshouldered it when I got to work. Smooooth, y’all — my contact popped out and my eye watered like crazy. It left two blood spots on the sclera and a dull headache behind my eye all day. Perfect for presenting to the entire sales organization at 9 a.m.! (OK, that’s a stretch, as I didn’t do any actual presenting — just worked my ass off on the materials that my boss and MarCom people presented. I did pass out hard copies of the slides to everyone there, though.)

I may try something nutty tonight and not drink any wine when I get home, even though I have a lovely Shiraz and Reisling open, even though it’s Buffy night, even though I know that when the end of the day rolls around, nothing will sound better than hopping into my jammies and sipping a nice glass of wine.

Today’s animal story in the Metro cracked me up: Frightened Frogs Thwart Mate Plan. See, this big honkin’ 3-lb. burrowing bullfrog was introduced into the cage of two female frogs in the hopes that they’d get their froggy freak on and help thwart extinction of the species. But the females “ran into their cages and buried themselves into the ground when they saw the size of the male.” The whole sniggery tone of watch out for Mr. Big Stud Bullfrog cracked me up. And is it coincidence that the French word for frog — la grenouille — is a euphemism for penis? I think not!

I happened to read a research update email, something I never do, and clicked through to see which analysts were going to be traveling. Imagine my surprise when I saw that one would be in Warsaw, Indiana — my hometown — later this week. I’m toying with the idea of emailing him with tips of where to hang out — Rex’s Rendezvous and the Time Out Inn would be high on the list of drinkin’ and carousin’ spots. But I probably won’t dare disturb the universe.

(Ugh, this reminds me of a preview for what may be the worst movie ever: Till Human Voices Wake Us. One of those previews where D. and I simultaneously turn and whisper something snarky.)

So I told D. I couldn’t think of anything clever to rhyme with “I love you a bushel and a heap,” and he sent me this:

it’s with you i want to sleep
not in the ashcan will i sweep
you, cos my affection runs so deep
my tides of love are not at neap
into your bed i want to creep
i hold you dear, for sure not cheap
you make the ekg of my heart beep
into all aspects of my life do you seep
i would still love you if you bought a jeep
to save you from cliffs would i leap
i love you more than meryl streep!

Is it any wonder why I’m cranium over clavicle for him?

Now playing Kristin Hersh’s new record . . . so far, so gorgeous. The gorgeousity reminds me that it’s been what, a couple of years since Sunny Border Blue.

More excellence from the daily Metro: Seems a French porno mag is suing Oprah for the periodical name < >. And they devoted several column inches to a story about an Edinburgh lass who was duped into pouring tinned baked beans and syrup onto her feet by a shopper in her store. She didn’t think much of his request — or the fact that he photographed her besmirched tootsies — until she recounted the tale to her roommates. “The woman’s friends told her, ‘What were you thinking? He’s obviously a total weirdo,’ ” the story concludes. And to think, all those mornings I smugly turned down the guy handing out free copies of this shining gift from the fourth estate, I was missing out on stories like these.

I have the hiccups, and the supposedly miracle cure I read about recently — where you’re supposed to concentrate on anticipating the next spasm — is utterly useless. So I’m taking my spoonful of sugar in a glass of wine instead. And a pox on my anticipatory teetotalitarianism.

I haven’t even discussed the coolness of the recent weekend. Earth-shatteringly good sexing with the D. on Saturday — we did little all day except, actually. We ventured out for an exhibit of comic art at Zeitgeist Gallery. What a madhouse. Guess you have to expect that kind of scene when there’s cheap beer to be had, but really, it was Scenester Heck. And some indiot had parked one of those double-long strollers right in the middle of the tiny gallery. D. and I met T. and K. there and soon after headed to Pugliese’s, an amazing dive in East Cambridge. Rolling Stones on the jukebox (followed by Enigma, in a burst of oddness), a buzzed chick in a backward baseball cap dirty dancing with a huge regular propping up the bar, and church pews for seating. Outstanding. Then a huge dinner at The Helmand where we met up with Teresa and Ted. I was way impressed with the raviolis stuffed with leeks and scallions, all innocently reclining in a puddle of minted yogurt and smothered with a beefy-good sauce. And the baklava-like dessert induced shivers of pleasure. Afterward, we played Cranium and Quiddler chez moi, avec fluff du chat in my disgracefully slovenly flat.

Sunday D. and I had scrumptious brunch at Johnny D’s, (He: pancakes with raspberry puree and vanilla butter. Me: catfish ‘n’ eggs. We: bloody Mary’s, oh yes.) Then walked to Harvard for some record shopping. Then met T. at the Kendall Cafe for beers. Then saw “The Safety of Objects,” which was OK I guess. T. and D. were impressed with how pretty much all of the stories were woven together. But I think the film missed out on the dark ‘n’ sad feeling conveyed by A.M. Homes’s stories.

Kristin sings, 2′ 25″ into the song: “You are good, you are kind / You are drunk all the time / But never drunk enough . . . “