Flarfing along.

I managed to crush in a cheap manicure between a marathon of meetings and therapy. It’s my favorite kind, which I am renaming the Lizbeth Salandar: short, square, black. And already a bit dinged. That’d be the great thing about black polish: the more dinged up it gets the more one can embrace the ruined aspect. Like good heavy, black boots.

Unaccountably down these last few days. I expect it has been because I seem to be not nearly having as much fun as Michael M. No matter: in two months I’ll be at the ocean in my favorite tub with a big stack of books.

The tomatoes have started producing, although none large enough to fry. If I was Miss Olive, I’d be pickling them with huge bouquets of dill and my descendants would want to write epic poems about them. Or at least dirty limericks.

We had sautéed peaches for dessert, unctuous and rosy and moan-ably good. Tomorrow? Clafoutis!

If my therapist can’t get her Ipod Touch up and going, we are going to meet up at her house and I am setting her up. A girl needs her gear, damn it.

Alex, Esme and I have our first double date arranged: Alisha June is coming over this weekend for an afternoon of beers and a big heap of merino. If there’s no bad and weird yarn spun by the end of it, I will have utterly failed.

The kittens are growing although Otis is very heavy and now twice the size of Finn. Otis is infatuated with his long piece of polarfleece on a stick while Finn will happily drag sticks of butter all over the house. Otis is bouncing off the keyboard as I write this.

Yesterday's visual at Alc. and College: Young black man with dreads and a lovely fro wearing the following:

• wire rimmed glasses
• blue ironed and opened oxford shirt w/tee shirt
• white lace-up shoes and walking shorts with belt

and

• a silk rep stripe tie, worn around his head Jimi Hendrix style
• matching socks.

It was impressive.

Work has been a complete crap-fest, but vacation is scheduled and I can't say I'm not comfortable when I'm home (a vacation in itself).