Imagine eating a Mallomar cookie. It gives itself over to you on your tongue, surrendering utterly, melting into sublime marshmallow and chocolate mush. It’s so gooey and rich and sweet that you can’t stop with just one. You sort of hate yourself while devouring the next five, but you’re also secretly exulting in the vice.
I am, of course, talking about CW’s Beauty and the Beast, starring Kristin Kreuk and Jay Ryan, both of whom are utterly gorgeous and drool-worthy.
During the long hours of posing for Sabin at night, I’ve Netflixed a lot of TV shows. I don’t like TV much, in general, so finding shows I enjoy is a challenge. There’ve been some fun surprises. I enjoyed The 4400 and Continuum. I really grooved on White Collar. I have a running daydream about my second career as an art thief. Art thieves get to wear sleek black leather catsuits, use all the coolest gadgets, and go into great museums at night, when no one is around to disturb them. Also, do you realize, they search you when you enter the Pinacoteca Vaticano, but they don’t search you when you leave? If you can get that superb little Fra Angelico panel under your shirt, you might be able to keep it!
Last week Netflix suggested Beauty and the Beast, and I started watching. It took me a few episodes to get engrossed. Then, suddenly, without my even realizing it, I was hooked.
It’s all that gazing into each other’s eyes and talking about their relationship. The desire and the longing, the stolen kisses and murmured declarations of eternal love. The intensity of their oft-thwarted passion–and how they discuss it endlessly. Oh, lordy, my girly heart swoons at all that flowery verbiage. I just can’t help it.
No one’s picking up anyone’s dirty socks, which strikes me as highly romantic.
A few nights ago, as Catherine and Vincent dissolved into each other’s arms in a ravishing tangle of beautiful limbs, I sighed. “They’re going to do it,” I cried, clasping my hands to my chest. “They’re finally going to do it!”
“You’re such a girl,” said my husband, rolling his eyes.
“You noticed?” I responded.
He groaned.
This is the man who phoned last week, disgruntled after a long day’s work on a business trip, and declared, “I’m going to eat, poop, and go to sleep!”
“That’s so romantic,” I replied. I mean, you’d think the world’s greatest living figurative artist could muster something a little less pedestrian, right? But I guess all men have a bit of the beast in them.
“I’m not feeling very romantic,” he muttered. I understood that he was tired and that he hates to sleep apart from me and that he travels because the money is good on these gigs. In their own way, his commitment and hard work as a husband and family man bespeak grown up romance. I reminded myself of all of that.
Still, it would have been nice to hear something throaty and suggestive and oozing with ardor. But that’s what TV is for, right?
Last night, after an extended bit of dialogue during which Catherine and Vincent once again affirmed their abiding love and passion, Sabin threw down his sculpting tool. “I can’t take that show anymore!” He stalked out of the bedroom where we work. We were almost done with our third hour of work, and it was after 10 pm, so it was a good time to finish for the night, anyway.
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