“[Robert Mitchum] loved wine and he particularly loved cheese, cheese of all kinds he was eager to try. And while we were shooting [Foreign Intrigue, 1956], his thirty-eighth birthday came up. I told everybody on the set not to say a word, not to say ‘Happy Birthday.’ So we went through the whole day shooting and nobody said a thing to acknowledge it. And he was in his dressing room, taking off his makeup and cleaning up, and then I came in and told him I wanted to show him tomorrow’s set. And we went out and everyone was there to yell 'Happy Birthday,’ and we had the whole place covered with barrels of wine and giant wheels of cheese, about thirty-six different kinds of cheese. And that was the only time I ever saw him get emotional.”
For the rest of his stay in Europe Mitchum would provoke the wrath of hotel keepers and gagging chambermaids, not to mention family members, as he gorged on great slabs of Roquefort and Gorgonzola and Brie and left unwrapped, unrefrigerated portions behind under the beds and in dresser drawers. 'I remember, he talked a lot about cheese,’ said Harry Schein, the Swedish theater director and husband of Ingrid Thulin. 'He was crazy for cheese, that man.’ // Baby, I Don’t Care by Lee Server
Monroe’s peccadilloes seemed never to bother Mitchum. He thought she was an essentially sweet and funny but often sad and confused person. Eternally vulnerable, uncertain of her talent, she was prey to exploitation and a victim of her own bad judgment. Perhaps a key to their relationship- and he would have no easy time convincing anyone about this- was that Mitchum found Monroe sexually unappetizing and never tried to bed her. While others cared to see only her voluptuousness and easy availability, Mitchum saw a frightened and possibly disturbed child-woman, not his cup of tea. Perhaps too, his lack of ardor had something to do with what he claimed was the secret source of Monroe’s neurotic temperament and chronic lateness: her vagina. Due to the peculiar nature of her female plumbing, Mitchum discovered, Marilyn would experience an unusually strong, debilitating menstruation and excruciatingly painful premenstrual period that could sometimes last for nearly the entire month. Mitchum claimed that many a time, as people on the set stood around cursing her selfishness, Marilyn lay in her dressing room immobilized with cramps, embarrassed and suffering.
SNAPE TRYING TO DEDUCT POINTS FROM GRYFFINDOR AND THE PACK OF CORGI PUPPIES WHINING AT HIM FOR IT
Severus Snape had made a crucial mistake two weeks ago. He’d been standing in Albus Dumbledore’s office, staring at a hooped golden object that whirred on a shelf behind Dumbledore’s head, and wondering what exactly its purpose was. As a result, he’d been distracted when the headmaster said, “Severus, may I suggest an addition to your classroom in the new year?”
It had been the end of summer, and Snape—mostly because of guilt, having secretly shredded one of Albus’s favorite scarves for an experimental scarf-related potion—wanted to show some gesture of goodwill, so he’d said, instinctively, “Yes.” Like an idiot. This was why gestures of goodwill were ill-advised in absolutely every situation.
The second the affirmative issued from his lips, Snape regretted it. There was no way to anticipate what he’d just agreed to. Expectations were always a thorny issue with Albus. “An addition to the classroom”—would the old man suggest one of those cauldrons made entirely out of dragonglass, cured in vats of Veela spit for sixty years? Albus had been talking about those for months.
Or would he suggest a new lighting system? Six students had tottered to the infirmary this past spring, moaning that the flickering torches in the dungeons had given them eye strain. Honestly. Eye strain. Sometimes Severus thought that the staff should close down Hogwarts now, shut the doors, drop the wards, abandon the Founders’ project while they were still ahead, instead of encouraging these whinging little crybabies to spout their opinions as if they mattered.
But that was not the problem at hand anymore. That was all two weeks ago, and now he had to deal with the consequences.
The answer to any open-ended question from Albus Dumbledore is no, Snape thought, teeth gritted tight, sweeping loose corgi fur into the flame beneath his cauldron, which flared an indignant sort of purple.
"In your dreams, Calum." I say with a smirk, walking away from him. "I don't take no for an answer (Y/N)." Calum calls out, skating towards my direction. His practice starts in ten minutes and he's supposed to be warming up with his team. The glass wall separates the two of us. I ignore him and continue walking. Typical cocky Calum. "Let me-" "Calum, please," I say, stopping and facing him through the glass. "You wouldn't have time to take me out even if you tried." He rests his forearm above his head on the glass. "You sure about that?" He asks with smirk. I roll my eyes and begin to walk again. "(Y/N), wait!" Calum calls again. I turn on my foot and sigh, facing him again. "If we win this Friday, will you go out with me?" He asks, almost implores, with hopeful eyes. I shake my head a bit, but my heart tells me different. He breathes out before swallowing and then nods his head. "Alright." He says before skating back to his team. I bite my lip while seeing his buddies pat his back in sympathy. Calum just stares at the ground. Why would I say no to that hockey hunk? I walk up to the glass and bang on it a bit to get his attention. He looks up, sees me, and then skates over. "I'll think about it." I say confidently with a smile once he comes back. He smiles widely while nodding his head.
"C'mon baby." I whisper under my breath while watching Ashton skate next to the offense man with the puck, trying to steal it from him. I bite my lip as the crowd cheers for Ashton to defend the guy. Then all of a sudden, after stalling, Ashton shoves the guy hard to the glass and steals the puck from him. The crowd cheers even more. Ashton slides the puck across the ice to his open team mate, who waits by their goal. No one defends the Ashton's team mate and the crowd whistles and hollers once he gets the puck. While the opposing team skates to get him, he skates closer to the goal and then flings the puck into the goal, winning the championship game. Ashton helped assist the final goal. The crowd roars and everyone jumps out of their seat. I sigh in relief as my heart beats quickly. Ashton and his team skate together to join in victory. They did it. My man did it. After the boys smack each other's backs and helmets for congrats, Ashton turns around and immediately searches for me. Once he found me, he smiles. I smile widely at him while giving him a thumbs up. Then he pokes his index finger to his heart twice and then points it at me with a smile, indicating that that was for me. It's his normal gesture to me when he does a nice play or when he scores. I smile at him and mouth an "I love you" to him and he does the same to me.
"How'd it go?" I ask, leaning against the hallways wall while watching Michael lean his hockey bag on the wall. His entire body is sweaty. His muscle shirt is soaked with sweat and his prominent biceps are as well. His wet and sweaty hair is hidden under his SnapBack, which sits backwards on his head. And yet, he still takes my breath away. Michael sighs and slides of his shoes. He looks up at me and smiles a bit, but tiredly. I open my arms out for him. "But I stink, baby-" He starts. "I don't care. Just hug me." I say with a smile. He smiles and pads his way over to me, embracing me. "I'm exhausted," He whispers, nuzzling his head into my neck. "Workouts suck. Plus, I'm hungry." I chuckle at his words and squeeze him tight. "But you're still cute." I admit quietly. He chuckles. "The boys and I are getting so much better though. I bet we'll get that trophy Saturday." He says, rubbing his nose on my neck. I nod in agreement. Him and his team have improved a lot over the season and I couldn't be more proud of them. "Hit the shower, Clifford. You smell. Supper should be ready when you're out." I say, kissing his cheek before pulling away from him. But he brings me closer to him. "Why don't you join?" He asks quietly as he begins to kiss my neck lightly. "And you said you're tired." I tease with a smile and then hum softly as he begins to suck.
"Luke!" I shout, running towards him after he got escorted off the ice by referees. He got kicked out of the game after knocking out the asshole who kept taunting Luke during the game. Luke's face was bloody due to his nose. I feel like my heart droops and tears begin to sting my eyes. "(Y/N)." Luke calls out as the refs walk him to the locker room. I follow the three of them. "I got it, thanks." Luke says to them, removing his arms from their hold once they reached the locker room. They let go of him and walk back to the ice. "Are you mad?!" I ask, walking up to him. "That could've been the end of your season right there, Hemmings!" I shout, poking his padded chest. He smiles down at me and shakes his head. "Since when did you become coach, baby?" He asks with a chuckle and I then smack his arm. He flinches before sitting down on the bench and untying his skates. "You're much better than that, Luke." I admit quietly, watching him. "Baby-" "You need to think before you do, damnit." I admit, infuriated at him. "He was talking about you, (Y/N)," He yells before looking up at me. "What else did you want me to do? Let him continue to talk shit about you to me? Huh?" I bite me lip a bit. Luke shakes his head before returning back to his skates. "I wasn't gonna let him do that. Not about my girl. No way in the fires of hell." He mutters, angrily.