these days of leiderhosen

The Splendid Table's Fettuccine with Tomatoes Basil and Crisp Bread Crumbs is pretty darn good.

Starbucks on the edge of the UC Berkeley Campus 7:35 AM. In the usual brigade of sleepy, sloppy students waiting for their caffeine fix, a young Buddhist nun on her way to class, shaved head, serious face and wearing very traditional Rinzai monk's garb: raksu, koromo, the lot all in shades of charcoal, and indigo blues. But here's the kicker: she was schlepping an Angry Little Asian Girl totebag and a very hefty chemistry book. When she picked up her drink -it was a iced caramel machiatto with a high hat of whipped cream and a straw- her serious face broke apart and she beamed at the young handsome barista (who himself looks like a Raphael Sanzio's angel) who blushed . Aside from looking utterly lovely, her clothes looked stunningly fashionable. She was breathtaking.

A certain amount of contentment is contained when ordering pants online (and on sale), the box is delivered for a reasonable price and in reasonable shape and having the pants be exactly what is needed. There are so very many things I'd rather do than confront a dressing room mirror in my boxers. When all shopping experiences can be as painless and as pleasurable as lipstick or shoe shopping, I'll go back into the stores, but until then I'd rather eat a nice bowl of broken glass. I've been pondering limericks. An under appreciated and pleasantly low form of poetry but quite tricky to get the meter to work, managing to squish the rhymes in the right spots, and most of importantly making it comprehensive and funny . Nothing kills a joke faster than having to explain the damn thing. The cat is much improved, thanks for asking. We have reached an agreement where she'll continue to lie on my spinning fiber and all reading materials and I won't poison her again. Quit...

The Cat is not dead! Will reconsider the use of flea drops on antique pussycats in the future; it makes them dopey and unresponsive for a while. While I pull myself together, the little fluffy freeloader is sucking down lamb baby food like it's going out of style. I am such a pushover.

Shred the Cat may be passing on. Or maybe it's the flea medication but at any rate, we more need more lamb baby food so I can try to coax her into eating. The heft of a sick animal is possibly the saddest weight ever. Despite our 16 years together, I am not ready. Adoring Betty Fussell's memoir. She's featured in this month's Vogue at eighty years old, putting us all to shame. Enormous slipper socks from Dastardly Wool are finished and now need to be felted. They are absurdly big. I am not watching the Olympics. I have not worn a wig, blonde or otherwise, in thirteen years. Lipstick: Poppy King's Sinner: pink. Praise all! Look at all the New Yorker online only content ! Symphony Spaces' Selected Shorts podcast this week John Lithgow reads Roald Dahl's Taste. He's wonderful, especially when reading all sides of a family argument. Shriekingly funny and the audience agreed.

There is a particular adorable but very competent person at the University that has long been overlooked for advancement and her opportunity to is coming up this month. I love being in the position to give her the factual ammunition she needs for negotiation, while assuring her of her qualifications. Now that I am older, I've been encouraging women in lower career positions to assert themselves, mostly using techniques garnered from acting class. (Employment and advancement are still nowhere near perfect between the genders.) For someone who staggered into a career dragging a ball of woolen worsted and a half bottle of Trader Joe's single malt (oh, don't knock it; it's very good), no one could be more surprised than I. Man, it's fun. So. Here's the jist: When being bullied by a superior, plant your feet, straighten, make eye contact and speak deliberately. (You don't have to speak loudly in fact it's better if you use a lower, clear register.) If you be...

Must have more sleep. On a regular basis. Yesterday I lost my last 4.5" metal hairpin, unavailable in the US. I now look like a potted fern. Or Richard Simmons. This is obviously a sign I need to go to Paris and find a pharmacy. The lovely Ana sent me a huge box of perfume samples (If you have not seen her blog Invisible Magnet , you must ; she writes brilliantly.) Some vials, some full sized untouched bottles all wrapped in the pink pages of the New York Observer. An amazing present, one of the bottles is, of all things, a full sized L'Artisian Patchoul i. Not being a huge patchouli freak, I had to sample. Hmmm....dangerous. It causes hallucinations of Indian tea, cashmere shawls and shadowy rooms like being trapped inside a jewelry box. It's like dressing up like someone else more exotic for a day. (Patchouli is a known Republican repellent.) Meow. Thank you, thank you, thank you, Darling Ana. The husband has the most delicious skin inside his elbows. He is taking it ...