After all the excitement of our Mother’s Day Marathon, what with Patty Duke terrorizing her family, Loni Anderson whoring around, Elizabeth Montgomery’s sundry acts of deviousness, and Stockard Channing dramatically vowing not to help her daughter become a lesbian, I took a little break to watch a bunch of tennis.
From my couch I savored every dazzling moment of Carlos Alcaraz’s triumph in Madrid and Iga Świątek’s ruthless brilliance in Rome. My wife, a Tolkien fanatic who is about as interested in tennis as I am in Middle-earth, took notice of Świątek’s dominance and asked what “bagels” and “breadsticks” were in tennis parlance, and then dutifully sent me memes such as this:
I worked a bit on other projects, got a COVID booster, pulled weeds from the garden and read. Tomorrow will mark the start of Roland-Garros, also known as the French Open, and I’ll watch as much of it as I can while also trying to squeeze in some fresh content here. Which brings us to this.
A couple weeks ago I made a date with an irresistibly titled TV movie: Stalked by My Doctor. It was terrible enough that I’ve not yet decided whether to publish a post about it. (UPDATE: I did, it’s linked to above.) More disastrously, I invited my spouse to view it with me, thinking she’d decline, and now she’s pushing me to watch its many sequels. In tennis, that’s called an unforced error.
Cranky Lesbian is a disgruntled homosexual with too much time on her hands. Click for film reviews or to follow on Instagram.
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