Last night my classic movie group had a special Saturday night meetup to celebrate Christmas. And we celebrated it with Cary Grant. As an angel. There is nothing in the history of cinema as appealing as Cary Grant as an angel.
He was perfectly cast as Dudley in The Bishop's Wife. He is clever and deft and handsome and charming. He can figure skate like an Olympian and play like a concert harpist and create a bottomless sherry bottle and write a bitching sermon. All women are infatuated. All men find him simpatico. Dogs and children adore him, too.
My meetup buddy, Joanna, brought a pair of friends to the event. I found them highly intimidating as they chatted about architecture and art in a way that was completely over my head. I hope she doesn't bring them again. I know this is on me -- this feeling inferior -- but still, they harshed my holiday buzz.
Instead of sitting with Joanna, I chatted with another regular, Barbara, and a newbie, Steven (I believe). Steven is very young -- the green side of 25 -- and just moved back to the United States from Switzerland, where he spent the last decade, living with his parents. A classic movie fan, he sought us out, hoping to meet new people. I hope Barbara and I didn't freak him out. Two post-menopausal women openly lusting over a dead guy.
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