You're bleaching your hair with colors from your dream
We spent the afternoon celebrating my niece's eighth birthday observed. There were bagels and lox and gleeful shrieking as she ran around with the twins in the featherily falling snow, which made a brief white Christmas of the yard.
spatch has photographic evidence of the Silurian present we gave her and the two-toned cake my father decorated with marzipan, fondant, and pretzel sticks. The twins had gone all out and gifted her with a menagerie of mythological figurines including a pegasus, a dragon, and a unicorn, plus a Lovecraftian sort of uranium-orange stretchy equine fidget and a black-and-white cat "squishmelon" which she immediately buried her face in. The evening was slightly marred by a plague-scare, but a couple of negative rapid results later we are watching the first half-hour of The Unsuspected (1947), a kind of Gothic radio noir hosted by the gentle sadism of Claude Rains. And we will keep on being careful, because there is nothing else to do.
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It made her really happy. She was blown over by the menagerie. She liked our postcard! My father may be in the representational cake business for life.
I am sorry about the plague-scare, but glad about the test results.
Thank you. So are we! Fingers crossed for the repeat on Monday.
The Unsuspected is quite enjoyable.
Having previously seen Hurd Hatfield only as Dorian Gray, I was delighted by him as a classic drunken trash fire kept husband!