Boy, we keep trying. It ends the same way every time. Last week, I noticed that Patton Oswalt tweeted about how purely sublime Dame Maggie Smith was in a certain scene in the movie Murder By Death, and that made me desperate to watch it again. So desperate, that when we went over for dinner next door, I slapped five bucks on the coffee table and said, "Rent it on Amazon." I warned everyone in advance, this movie was made in 1976. There will be racism and misogyny. Silly me, I forgot the homophobia. But still, I wanted to press on and watch it. I still laughed a lot, but I groaned a lot more than before, when the parts that just would not fly now went by. I mean really. Peter Sellers as a Chinese detective? That was bad. So bad. I focused on Maggie Smith, David Niven, Alec Guiness, and Elsa Lanchester. They were worth it. Ah, the endless quest to find movies from my childhood that stand the test of time.
I moved forward on big plans that I concocted yesterday afternoon while playing with the baby. Got a few irons in the fire for Val's birthday week, coming up soon. I can't believe she is almost a year old. So much fun, seeing the world through her brand new eyes. She made such a difference in how we interpreted this time of pandemic and crisis. The outside world seemed very far away when we were in a quiet place, snuggling a sleeping infant.
It's hard to focus on writing tonight, with a dog frantically grooming her hindquarters and flopping on me like she thinks I can make her butt stop tingling. I mean, I can, in a roundabout way, but not until we figure out how to make her spay go safely. I gave the vet all the contact info for the clinic that Saoirse's brothers went to for their neutering surgeries, so they can ask the educated questions on what happened with Geordi. I hope they do actually call and talk it over. I haven't heard yet whether they did, but I gave them the info on Friday afternoon. I need to be a little patient.
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