I Heart Sherlock Holmes

I heart Sherlock Holmes.

Ok, maybe that’s not TOTALLY accurate. Yes, in high school I had 2 different versions of the complete collection of Sherlock Holmes mysteries (one with the original illustrations, leather bound), and yes, I read them and read them and read them. I used to fiddle with our tv antenna so I could watch Jeremy Brett on the PBS Mystery version of Sherlock Holmes when I was in 8th grade, huddling close to the fuzzy tv and trying to drink in EVERY detail of my beloved stories. I aspired to BE a Baker Street Irregular. When Young Sherlock Holmes came out during my high school years, you could have knocked me over with a feather, I was like a screaming teenager at an Elvis concert, without the screaming, or the music, or the white leather jumpsuit…just the smitten joy of the whole thing.

But still, to be TRULY accurate…it’s not Sherlock I love.

I heart Dr. Watson.

I do. I have had a major crush on a fictitious 19th century sidekick for 25 years.

Dr. Watson is just so…solid. He humanizes the fiercely analytical Holmes. He’s friendly, normal, reliable, occasionally even jolly. Holmes needs him, depends on him, seems constantly a step ahead and yet when Dr. Watson gets shot, it’s a distraught Holmes who saves him. Watson may not be on the cutting edge of mystery solving, but without him around, Holmes would be lost. Watson brings out the best in Holmes.

For a teenager who pretty much always felt lost in her own bleh, Dr. Watson seemed like a wonderful guy to have on your side.

In the Young Sherlock Holmes movie, Watson loves pastries, and his terrifying hallucination after the evil society shoots him with poison is about Pastries Gone Wild (ok, that seemed much more plausible when I was 15). Watson shares my passion for éclairs! What else do I have to say?

A few months ago, a modernized version of Sherlock Holmes appeared on PBS. In this version, Holmes is a “high functioning sociopath” and Dr. Watson a vet recently home from Afghanistan. The writers worked on Dr. Who, so the whole show has a sharp, witty, BBC-esque edge to it that frankly is almost better than chocolate for my brain. My spouse and I watched the series together, a rare moment when we actually enjoy the SAME tv program.
And in watching this remake, in the surprise of feeling that long lost excitement at

seeing a Really Good Mystery with characters I love, I had a moment of enlightenment, an epiphany, if you will, one that blew my adolescent longings to smitereens.

Guess what I realized?

I married Dr. Watson.

Bear with me here…I really did. For those of you who KNOW my spouse, think about it. I actually DID marry an Italian version of Dr. Watson.

Reliable? Check.

Hard working? Check.

A good listener, even if he doesn’t quite get it the first time you say it really fast? Check.

Generally thinking the best of others? Check.

Just a genuinely NICE person? Check.

Patient as all get out with the odd cluttery foibles of the people around him? Um, check.

Really good at what he does, even if it’s not always flashy? Check.

Deeply loyal? Check.

See what I mean? I MARRIED DR. WATSON!!!

The real mystery is why the heck he married ME…probably because I look like Heidi Klum, but I could be wrong. Hm.

So see, watching tv isn’t always a waste of time. Who knew PBS Masterpiece Theater/Mystery would be a celebration of marriage?

Of course the first 2 times I meant to post this I got randomly irritated with the resident Watson, and said forget posting this nice post. Ahem. I am so mature. And early winter was a rough season here on many levels. But really, at the end of the day, I am grateful for my spouse, and kind of tickled to discover this weird parallel to my teenage world, a world before I really knew my spouse at all. Now there’s a narrative arc for you…

Stuck on the Shoulder

Life can never be exactly what you want it to be—
I could be satisfied, Knowing you love me…
(This is dedicated to the one I love)

I’ve reached epic fail on the blogging front.

For both of you who read here, I apologize. Not because I have some deluded sense of Sin of Word Deprivation, but because I’m a creature of habit who obsessively checks several blogs regularly. I know that twinge of disappointment when there are no new words to be read.

I’ve hesitated to post this. Nobody wants to read Confessions of a Waaaambulance Rider, and I feel like the descent into whine is never more than a step away. But I hope that by at least putting some words on screen I can take some kind of step, even if it’s a slippery one.

When I began this blog, I called it “Moving Right Along”. As a Jersey girl/manic mom/sugar addict/high school teacher/wannabe runner/bearer of an NF-brain tumor flag, my life tends to hurtle forward, kind of like Daffy Duck in the Robin Hood episode…

“ I trip along merrily! I trip along merrily! I trip I trip I trip I trip I tri-hip up and down! I trip trip trip trip (falls down hill)…trippity trip trippity…I tri-hip it up and down!” .

Well, that, and I like Muppets. Inordinately.

But recently, for whatever reason, I am not going anywhere.

I’m still busy as all get out. School has been a challenge: a good challenge, but a challenge nonetheless. My teenager defines Challenge, generally not in a good way. My little ones…well, one isn’t so little anymore, and she’s trying to make sense of growing up. My baby is my heart, a balm to my soul (albeit one that can NEVER find her socks or her ballet tights and forgets herself in a game or movie when I send her to do a chore). Everyone has activities, everyone has projects, everyone has needs and wants and the washer is broken and my spouse’s running clothes REEK and I have no clue what to make for dinner.

In that respect, life is moving right along just like it always does.
But somehow, lost in the late summer, my heart is stuck, my mind is frozen. Well, frozen in the sense that there are 57 million ice cubes racing around inside the frozen brain and yelling at any given second. This is most annoying at 5 a.m., but it gets old at any time of day.

I can go into a store, and see something that puts me right back in 2004. Yesterday it was those crazy erasers, the little Japanese collectible erasers my girls are nuts for. I saw a sushi set…and instantly was back in the onco playroom, where the play kitchen set had a somewhat disturbing plastic sushi play food collection. Today it was a song on the radio, more accurately a conversation about radio songs that meant something, followed by the thought of the song that was playing when we headed to Philly for biopsy results in 2006. It’s like my mental TARDIS is broken (not unlike the actual TARDIS often is, which I guess should be comforting).

It’s like the crazy vines in the movie Jumanji, or Audrey II in “Little Shop of Horrors”. The vines catch my ankle and drag me down…and darn, they just keep
growing.

Many of our long time friends in our community of woe are really suffering. Many are reaching that point in the journey that is the nightmare of every parent, but an acute agony for the parents who walk this long road too. Every child suffering, every parent suffering, is another tendril that holds my heart from moving.

Why, after 6 years, this is such an issue, I have no idea. Anyone? Bueller? Bueller?

Last night I saw a quote on Facebook that said, “Anxiety is the crippling fear over some possible future evil. The irony is that, except for sin, anxiety is a greater evil than any evil that could possibly come upon us -- for anxiety disquiets the entire soul and renders it unfit for any good work.


While I don’t know that anxiety is a greater evil than any ACTUAL evil –about 10 minutes in a pediatric intensive care unit with your child kind of puts the doubt on that—I do see that the disquiet of anxiety, the noise, the 57 million ice cubes, can get a gal stuck. The noise makes all other words, all other blog entries, just seem meaningless.

I am waiting and hoping that the poster of that quote posts the “and so you do this and live happily ever after” follow up quote…

And waiting…and hoping…and waiting…and hoping…

But in the meantime, I am trying to make sense of things, trying to embrace once again that life really can never be exactly what I want it to be, but love truly makes things bearable, if not better.

Hopefully as we get into Thanksgiving I can get some of my verbal and mental mojo back. I don’t really know how, but as a Jersey girl/manic mom/sugar addict/high school teacher/wannabe runner/bearer of an NF-brain tumor flag, I really don’t have the time to be caught in some mental game of Chutes and Ladders, where every step forward leads to a big twisty slide down to yikes.

Really, NOBODY has time to be “merely a flesh wound!” everywhere she goes.

I’m not sure how to do this; but I hope that I can start moving right along again, that I can formulate coherent sentences and get the washer fixed. Until then, I’m going to see how many more movies I can reference in a single blog entry… : )