Yesterday, we took Dave and Maren to the Beyond van Gogh exhibit and then out to brunch at the Peacock Diner in the Loop. Anne ordered the Gingerbread pancakes that are pictured. Later, in the evening, the kids went out and Anne and I sat down to watch some of season two of the Netflix comedy series, Emily in Paris. We were late to the watch party for season one, but are in the thick of it for this second season, about halfway through. The reviews for it are to put it charitably, mixed. This second season seems to be better accepted than the first, but combined with diatribes flying around about our Netflix overlords that’s not saying too much. Emily (Lily Collins) plays a Midwesterner who is a publicist that specializes in social media. Call her an influencer. Through happenstance she snares a gig in Paris at a haut advertising firm. Not speak French and being American, she is not accepted by her native coworkers, who consequently are not portrayed in the best of lights. This ill treatment of the French is one of the main criticisms of the show. That and the fact that Emily is a bit vapid doesn’t help either. Still, if its inhabitants are ill-treated, the city itself is fawned over. Sitting here in our pandemic enforced isolation the romance of the City of Lights is irresistible. I remember checking out flights after binging the first season, but then Delta and then Omicron came along. While Emily is hardly high television, it is eminently watchable and we are prepared to enjoy it for what it is.
Just read an article in New Scientist: “People who have cataracts can reduce their risk of developing dementia by about 30 per cent by undergoing surgery to restore their sight, although it’s not clear why.”
So, now you have one less excuse for being forgetful.
I had a witty response, but I forgot what it was.