The Ghost and Mrs. Muir

Last night, I put The Bug to bed, hopped into my PJs and got a big bowl of Haagen-Dazs Reserved Sweet Cream with Hawaiian Honey. (I admit that I went to the store today and bought all the pints I could, just in case the limited edition disappears before our next shopping trip. It’s always best to be prepared for disaster.)

Then, turning on the television an hour prior to show time to set the ambience, I sat down with my scrapbooking project in anticipation of Masterpiece’s Pride and Prejudice, which I already own on DVD, and yes, I am happily married and no, I don’t own any cats. I just enjoy the spinster lifestyle.

But I didn’t scrapbook. And my ice cream melted. The Ghost and Mrs. Muir just happened to be on. It’s not brilliant movie-making and the story has no gripping twists or deep characterization but every time I see it, I get a pang deep within my chest and end up crying buckets. Wuthering Heights, on-screen, has the same effect (the one with Laurence Olivier and the BBC Masterpiece one – the others just made me nauseous).

But the Ghost and Mrs. Muir is so melancholy. The lonely, moody sea, the music, the bitterness of life, which, to her misfortune, the elegant, kind Mrs. Muir chooses over her dead sea captain. All those lonely years spent with her aging housekeeper until finally, finally, she dies and the Captain returns for her. The movie ends with a stormy sea and happy ending, but it’s still bittersweet and hurts to watch.

On my bookshelf: Neil Gaiman’s Sandman, Volume 6.

On the iPod: Mazzy Star "Into Dust"; Tom Waits "Cold Cold Ground"; Jabe "Both Hands on the Wheel"; Edith Piaf "La Vie en Rose"

The Big Game

The Superbowl is today and as I live in Boston, fans of the Patriots surround me. Cheers of anticipation (“Patriots will conquer!”) and moans of fear (“But what if they lose?”) bounce from beyond the Neck to the far reaches of Copp’s Hill. Women are sighing over Tom Brady. Men are sighing over Tom Brady. Mayor Menino has planned the Great Victory Parade (“Pats will conquer!”) on Super Tuesday. I wince to think what the election results will be if the Pats win.

Then there’s the woman I met on the T who thought Patriots Day was in honor of the team.

The worst of the hoopla surrounding this year’s Big Game, though, is the weird entitlement of certain Patriots’ fans. I really don’t get it. I understand rooting for a team, sitting back with a beer and enjoying the game, talking statistics and analyzing players. Maybe even getting a little passionate about it. That’s cool.

But I as I listened to the comments of a morning DJ, my passions, which NEVER extend to the sports arena, unless it involves a horse biopic like "Seabiscuit," became engaged. The gentleman raved about newbies, those fans who are suddenly jumping on the Patriots bandwagon without having paid their dues. They haven’t suffered through the dismal years and have no right to partake in the spoils of victory. (Hello? Suffering? Over lost football games? Did you perhaps clutch the remote too hard and lose a finger or two due to blood loss? And, hmmm, have you been to Darfur lately?)

He went on to insist that a fan must keep one’s month shut unless that individual has been following the team for at least three years and knows a minimal of six team members and their respective positions. If Americans had more zeal for knowing the names and positions of those in power in our government, the country may be a better place.

Enough ranting. I will pass the Super Bowl as I usually do – with a romance novel in one hand, a cup of tea in the other, and the Puppy Bowl on my television as I count down the day to my Super Bowl. The Oscars. (And yes, you Pats fans may laugh heartily – I often laugh the loudest at this equally pathetic penchant I have for armchair competitions – the Globes, the SAGs, and the king of them all…the Oscars.)

My husband, in an attempt to humor me, shares in the zeal to the extent of food prep. It’s tradition to feast on high-calorie, high-fat appetizers all day long. The standard nibbles include spinach balls, crabmeat canapés, sushi, bean dip, and whatever new recipes tickle our fancy. Then it’s time for the Red Carpet. I don PJs, the red silk ones that come out from hiding once a year, and my dear husband plants himself in front of his Mac to kill demons while I indulge in star gazing, hopes high for a Viggo spotting (it’s a guarantee this year, unless the strike continues).

The DH is attentive to the Big Game. When I croon over a dress or sigh over a handsome actor, scoff at a self-indulgent acceptance speech or grow teary at an especially moving one, DH presses a button on his Mac, which activates his pre-recorded voice saying, “How lovely” or "Yes, dear.”

Such a wonderful evening, bonded in camaraderie.

Recently Read: The Road. One of the top ten books I’ve ever read. I finished it three weeks ago and I can’t stop thinking about it. It’s dismal, uncomfortable, and full of hope. (And, yippee, Viggo is set to play the father in the movie version – I can’t think of a better actor for this role. No-one captures the tragic hero like Viggo Mortensen.)

Recently Seen: "Eastern Promises." Yes, I am shallow and Netflixed this one only because I heard Viggo appears in his altogether (and may I say, he is altogether delicious?); however, I was blown away by this tale of the Russian mob in London, a story which alternates between hope and despair for the two main characters. Can’t get it out of my head. Another one that I can’t seem to forget is "Atonement." Brilliant imagery. Gripping tale. I left the theater in a sad state of mind, but it was well worth it.

On My Nightstand: Loretta Chase’s Mr. Impossible. This romance author is the best at capturing the custom, language, and manners of the Regency era. She has a wonderful command of the English language and world history and tells a witty story with quirky heroes and heroines. Much needed after my recent excursions in books and movies.