I nicked my left leg while shaving in the shower today. I cut the little area above the knobby part of the ankle, the smooth place on the outside of the leg where the bone is just under the skin. I flinched and muttered a mild oath, then rinsed my leg with cold water. Nicks are a part of shaving.

When I shut off the shower and slicked back my hair, I glanced down at my leg again. It looked like something from a horror movie. The outside of my ankle and foot were covered with a river of blood. Blood was gathering in a little pool in the bottom of my tub. Amazing. Such a little nick, such a lot of blood. And of course, my bathmat is white.

I managed to hop on my right foot across the bathroom floor while keeping my left leg inside the tub (I'm flexible) and grab a handful of tissue (l'arabesque grotesque, I've dubbed that move). The tissue stuck to my leg long enough for me to wrap my hair and body in a pair of towels and hop into my bedroom, where I tried to stay away from my blanket (also white).

I keep first-aid and other miscellaneous items in an antique wire milk crate, which I yanked off the shelf. I pulled out a big square of gauze dressing, taped it tightly around my ankle and cleaned the rest of the blood off my foot. Then I went back to the bathroom and flushed the blood out of the tub.

Now, here I sit, my ankle bandaged, feeling more than a little foolish. If I'm going to be such a klutz, I should buy red bathmats and towels instead of white.

Better my blood shed than the blood of others, I suppose, and there are a few others in particular I'd like to target today. Some of them are wielding hammers downstairs. Another, a mysterious local who likes to share his music with the entire neighborhood, has had Roberta Flack's "Killing Me Softly" on repeat for most of the day. (He just switched to the Doors, so he's safe for now. "Break on Through" came on as I hopped around my bedroom trying not to bleed on my blanket.)

And then there's the cat. She woke me early this morning, retching, her whole body heaving as she tried to gack up a hairball. I can't believe how strongly a ten-pound cat can shake a bed. I shoved her off just in time, and she spit up on the hardwood instead. Much easier to clean up, but no less distasteful. Then she wanted to be fed, and bit me a few times until I did. I've spent much of the day trying not to kick her.

Do I sound hostile? Well, yes. I'm feeling a bit hostile. I didn't get to sleep until 3am and was woken by a retching cat at 7am. This is one of those days when only intravenous Valium would really improve my mood.

The plan at the moment is to dry my hair, put on comfy khakis, and venture forth into the sunshine with my camera and my CD Walkman. I have to get away from the hammering before I find the workmen and turn their tools into murder weapons.

And how is your Monday?