The people at Netflix probably think I have an addiction to Murder, She Wrote.
I reserve the DVD series as soon as each season is released. I don’t know what it is, but there is something unbelievable comforting about watching Angela Lansbury solve funky 80’s-era murders as mystery novelist Jessica Fletcher.
Part of my enjoyment comes from childhood nostalgia as I remember curling up with Mom on the couch watching Murder, She Wrote after church on Sunday nights while munching buttery popcorn. Another part comes from the strange feeling of self-accomplishment when I correctly “solve” the murder half-way through the show. The clues and acting are so ham-handed that a monkey could solve the case, but I feel good about it, nonetheless.
And Angela Lansbury is ever-so-charming that I find myself wishing she were real and that I lived in Cabot Cove, Maine, so we could be neighbors. Of course, considering the high body count in Cabot Cove (hence the many mysteries Jessica has to solve) that probably wouldn’t be the safest course of action.
Recently, I’ve discovered that my (still firmly-entrenched in 80’s nostalgia himself) husband also enjoys my Murder, She Wrote obsession. He’ll often sit happily and watch a few episodes with me. Although, he does give me squinty-eyed looks when I make fun of the clothes and hair. That comes from him growing up in the 80’s and me in the 90’s, of course. He actually wore those clothes and thought they were cool. He probably STILL thinks they are cool.
Either way, it’s a fun way to “knock-off” a Friday night!