Mrowr!

That was my sorry attempt to give a cougar yell. Although...am I old enough to be a cougar yet? Do you have to actually hit on and get younger men to be a cougar, or can you just respect those who do? (BTW: My junior high school's mascot was the cougar and our motto was "Cougar pride." Ah, such subversive and subconscious feminism at work even then.)

ANYWAYS, this cougar talk was started because Saturday night I wore my leopard-skin print top for the first time. I went shopping a few weeks ago for work attire and came home with that shirt, plus a zebra-print tank top. Sometimes I'm not sure where the line between ironically tacky and just plain tacky is anymore. Either way, I *love* those shirts, so I guess it doesn't really matter.

As part of a general celebration that this summer was over and that my beloved condo in DC has finally shuffled along the food chain to a new owner, we were at a fancy French restaurant in town for dinner. The wine steward recommended a sparkling rose that was one of the cheapest bottles on the menu. Perhaps the leopard skin working its magic? Or perhaps what he thought the leopard skin could afford? Either way, it was delish.