Elementary, my dear Watson

Nowadays, it would seem that everybody’s a critic, and although I do not want to be hasty in my judgement, I must admit that I am unsure whether I ‘approve’ of the new Sherlock Holmes film. Perhaps ‘approve’ isn’t the right word; I think it might be more a case of not being able to decide whether I should see it or not, as I already have mixed emotions about the film (casting wise).

Not that I want to jump onto any bandwagon. As the tales of great Mr Holmes and his dear companion Dr Watson has attracted many readers/ ‘followers’ over the years, creating a sort of mass appeal, I feel like I might be disappointed by the film. From the little one can glean from film trailers, it would seem that all that it’s really about is violence, explosions, and all the other stuff that the fast-paced modern world yearns for. It’s a little too typical for me. I’m not saying that I don’t enjoy a good action or suspense film, but in my mind, is this truly how readers the world over envision the private detective they have grown up with?

Things can never be quite as elementary as Holmes would inform Watson. Few things ever are.

Now, the word ‘elementary’ has synonyms such as ‘simple’, ‘straightforward’, ‘uncomplicated’ and ‘plain’. Yet readers know that this is hardly ever the case… which is probably why, for the Modern Moviegoer, elements such as the plot, special effects, and an obscenely abundant amount of explosives (or things of the like) need to be present. What fun would it be if things were uncomplicated? Things that are simple and plain are boring, and too close to Real Life (which is supposedly mundane, monotonous, humdrum…) Still, mayhap it is fitting, since what Holmes finds to be so elementary, so clear as day, is often missed by his associates, and quite often the readers, as well.

I was quite delighted when I got wind of the fact that Robert Downey Jr. was to adopt the role of the great master Holmes in the film version. In the snippets I have seen from the film, he is absolutely brilliant (yes, I know that statement is extremely biased/ prejudiced, but hey, reviewers or critics are actually very personal when it comes to what they do or don’t like, even if they try to deny it, so why should I be any different in my personal blog?) Something that does upset me, however, and which might cause me to delay my visit to the cinema, can be summed up in two words:

Jude Law.

I am not a great Jude Law ‘fan’. I’m not going to say that he isn’t a good actor – I enjoyed his performance in THE HOLIDAY, and I also remember that he wasn’t bad in ROAD TO PERDITION. There’s just something about his face that annoys the blooming daylights out of me. Sincerely.

That, and the fact that Dr John Watson is a respectable gentleman of a more advanced age. In other words, Jude law isn’t old enough. He’s too ‘feisty’ in the film – even if the director is trying to spice things up by having Watson be more active and gung ho, it isn’t working for me. And, I sincerely hope, it won’t for other true fans of the works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Nevertheless, I shall give the film the benefit of the doubt and spend my money on a ticket to the cinema. After all, as Doyle wrote in THE SIGN OF FOUR (a Sherlock Holmes book): “It is a capital mistake to theorize before one has data. Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts.” So let me not fall prey to my presuppositions – or suspicions, even – and give Mr J. Law a shot before making any further judgements.

Medical Encumbrance

I always knew they called it Medical Aid for a reason. Because even though, many times, your medical scheme might not pay out for prescriptions, or not cover all your costs, or even frustrate you to hell and gone when you have to wait for ages to get approval for things – while you’re pay quite a substantial sum of money, too! – if you don’t have it, you’re a bit screwed.

As I have been a student for the last four years, I was lucky enough to stay on my father’s medical aid. They paid for the braces that came on in 11^th Grade (2004) and came off in my 2^nd year at university (2007); they paid for my glasses at the end of my 2^nd year, as well as at the end of my 4^th year (2009); and of course, they mostly paid for the prescriptions I received after a visit to the doctor’s office. They also paid for my gynaecologist visit last December… although, technically, if you think about it, my dad is actually paying for it, as medical aid doesn’t come free or cheap.

Now, you may remember that I went to the gynae, and that I have to go for a laparoscopy to determine whether or not I have endometriosis (which the gynae thinks is a given); also, my ovaries are polycystic, so the sooner they can determine what’s what with my reproductive organs, the sooner they can combat the ‘bad stuff’ in me, to help prevent nasty problems such as cancer and infertility (and here I am being Little Miss Worst-Case-Scenario… again…) I wrote a long letter to my father’s medical aid scheme, outlining why I went to the gynae and why I need the op. Luckily, my father hadn’t passed it on yet, something he would have done yesterday morning. He told me over the phone that he had a feeling that he should wait… and there you go: that afternoon in the post, he received a letter (dated 5 January) informing him that as of the end of December – basically meaning 1 January 2010 – I was no longer going to be aided medically; put simply, I had finished my studies, so I got scrapped from the scheme.

And my operation was supposed to be next Tuesday!

Needless to say, I had to phone the gynaecologist’s office this morning to cancel my operation. Not one of the most fun activities I have ever partaken in, but luckily it was short, and the receptionist was friendly. Somehow, that made it worse for me. I’ve been stressing myself into a coronary, or a conniption, or something of the like – worrying about the operation, recovery, all that happy crappy. Although I am relieved by the prospect of not having to endure pain likened to sword-stabbing in my shoulder or other excruciating feelings of unease around my abdominal area, now I have something else to worry about: when will I be able to live a more ‘normal’ life?

My Significant Other is currently busy setting up his medical aid; signed the papers last night, in fact. But even if it goes through immediately, and it becomes active at the beginning of February, I might have to wait three months before I can go for the operation. Who knows what could happen in three months’ time??!

So, at the moment, I need a para-medic. Not a paramedic, where ‘para’ means ‘resembling’ or ‘similar to’ and ‘medic’ a doctor. In my sense, the medic part still refers to a doctor, and yet I would rather employ another meaning for ‘para’, like the ‘para’ in ‘paranormal’, meaning ‘beyond’. I need someone who is beyond a doctor (if there is such a person), someone who can help me out of this depression and defeatist slur that prickles my skin like (a) the first icy drops from the showerhead when turned on, or (b) that pins-and-needles sensation you get when you’ve been sitting a certain way for too long (even though, each time, you tell yourself you’ll never do it again), and the itch scratches through the numbness. By the way this year is going, my prospects don’t look too great (understatement); I don’t see any rainbows or butterflies or happy little bunnies bouncing along on the rosy garden path to have a picnic with their forest friends. No sir – I see those bunnies being eaten, perhaps slowly simmered in a stench of gruel-like stew.

Still, things could be worse. Things can always be worse, as people love telling us… Just as long as the ‘para’ doesn’t have another one of its meanings in para-medic: incorrect or abnormal. Coz then I’d really be in hot water.

[Am I the only one who feels like I’ve been rambling pathetically today…?]

Terms of Endearment

So I think I have finally found out why I do not like myself.

Part of the problem with me is that I have a type-A personality, and that my perfectionistic ways tend to make me feel anxious and claustrophobic at times. Also, the actual problem is two other things: the fact that I am a binge thinker, and that I am (*sharp intake of breath*) a hypocrite. I don’t like hypocrites, I’ve been pointed out to being one myself, ergo, as I am a hypocrite, I don’t like myself. It all makes sense.

Recently, I’ve been thinking quite a bit about terms of endearment, and the different things it could possibly mean. There will always be somebody somewhere who is in love, and in such a case, endearments will be used: kind words and sweet nothings, in other words, sweet little nonsensical and lovey-dovey sentiments that can be nice, yes, but on the other side of the scale can be a real pain in the metaphorical arse. As such, I like to think of ‘terms’, in this case, as three different things.

First, they could be words and sayings used in an affectionate way so as to express your love, devotion, bliss, or even state of ecstasy and rapture to the object of your amour. It could refer to a time period which something lasts, in this case the life expectancy/ lifespan or even ‘expiry date’ of the endearments – a period after which kind words and sweet nothings turn into harsh words and bitter (sobbing) ruminations that make you feel like everything is wrong, that nothing now matters. It’s like limits have been set, and there is no way you can change it. How lovely… The third meaning for ‘terms’, and one which I quite enjoy, is one that makes the endearment sound like a sort of business contract – a negotiation, if you will. Basically, it’s all about conditions. I think here it would be appropriate to see terms as “conditions or stipulations limiting what is proposed to be granted or done”, as Dictionary.com puts it. It makes love sound less lovely than one imagines it is (or ought to be), doesn’t it? Like any of us reeeaaalllllly need to be told that…

Still, that description is my favourite, as it seems a bit poetic (is that the word I’m looking for?) in my mind. It’s as though the parties in question sat down and had an earnest, intense discussion about endearment/affection, when it should be shown, how it should be shown, what kinds of mushy-gushy coochy-woochy utterings are allowed to be verbalized, et cetera. It’s like saying, ‘All right, I’m fine if you call me Sweetheart, but I draw the line at Hunnie-bunch and Snugly Bunnykins Heart’, or some such rubbish. There are just some things that should never be said in public. Ever. Especially not if it is, for example, your Facebook status or a message you left on that person’s Facebook wall – it lands up on the Live (news) Feed all your friends see on their Facebook accounts, and really, it’s a little too much.

That probably makes me sound like the most awful, insensitive, love intolerant grumbler on the face of this planet – perhaps even within our solar system, for that matter. The thing is, it’s beautiful when people are in love, and that they express their love so openly, sharing their feelings with the world; it’s not like I expect people to hide their emotions. I love my Significant Other, too, and yes, I have mentioned in my Facebook status updates that I love him, and yes, I have said that he is “My life, my love, my Everything”, and for some people, that’s all ready too much. I said that if people want to be too explicit or mushy-gushy, dry-heave inducing lovebirds on the net, then send your beloved a text message, or a message to their Facebook inbox. It’s hard to miss seeing what they tell one another within the Facebook feed thingy, and how am I supposed to know what not to read? I’m interested in my friends’ lives, which is why I read the feed in the first place. And now that I have made the comment that overdone adoration statements should be redirected to another location of reception, I’ve been told that I’m just as guilty, that I do it quite often, that nobody forces me to read it, that people should be able to say whatever they want on their status updates, et cetera. My wrist has been slapped justly, and thus I apologize for coming across as a great big hypocrite.

On the 8^th of February, my Significant Other and I will be celebrating our two year anniversary – and I promise that I won’t over-term my endearment, no matter how special a day it is. I’ll simply say, “Thank you for the two years you have been in my life”. Nothing soppy, nothing sentimental, and nothing that will make me sound like a hypocrite.

Although, since I don’t like myself already, why worry about it that much?