Judge Jack

Though Thursdays are long for me and I usually fall into bed as early as possible, last night I felt like I needed to give my brain a treat. I took myself to see a late showing of Bridget Jones’s Baby, which no one else at the Hall wanted to see and is on its last days in the theater. I’d rewatched the first two movies recently when I was sick, and since I’m not one of the Bridget fans who felt like the second movie was lackluster, and this one was even more enjoyable, no complaints here. (Sidenote: I’m glad I wasn’t discouraged by reviews of the movie based solely on its trailers. How is that a movie review?) I love Colin Firth, even an older Colin Firth, Renée Zellweger is still the flawed and funny Bridget, and Patrick Dempsey as a rich man with a soul? I’m in.

Because of my late night, I figured I needed to start today with a good breakfast. While I was cooking it, Jack was riveted at my feet, as if to say, “Whoa! You can do that here? You mean all the food doesn’t come through the door in styrofoam and plastic containers?”

Shut up, Jack. I’m a busy woman.