Connie Stevens’ Ghost Maid

A few weeks back, I was sitting in my living room, rocking my son and watching television. He had fallen asleep, but was not deep enough into sleep for me to move and the remote control was not within reach. The television was set to I have no idea what channel and was playing some sort of bizarre celebrity ghost story thing. Apparently this is a thing now. And apparently Connie Stevens is haunted…and not just by her marriage to giant man-whore, Eddie Fischer.

So, anyway, I was a captive audience. I had to sit there watching some woman with a New York accent tell me about Connie Stevens’ haunted house. And ya know what? It was fun. I got sucked in in a surprisingly short amount of time. And it was kind of embarrassing. I felt guilty. Because I like to think of myself as a skeptic. Just the facts for me, m’am. But here’s the thing: that show was really corny and the psychic’s readings were embarrassingly anodyne–Oh, Connie Stevens had a maid who called her “Miss Connie?” Holy fuck, I bet it’s unheard of for a Latina domestic worker to refer to some as “Miss Firstname.” I bet that never happens!–but I still felt pulled in by the show–I still wanted to know more.

My point is that I think believing in stuff is fun. It just is. It’s fun to think that Connie Stevens is living in Sonja Henie’s (!!!!!!) old house and possibly being haunted by the ghost of its famous former owner.

And I think this “it’s fun to believe in stuff” is a sentiment that can be applied more broadly. It’s fun to believe ghosts, in fairies and angels…and, you know, the Big Guy. So while I am atheist and a skeptic, I have some sympathy for believers, I really do. It’s just more fun to believe than to not.