Meanwhile! Right after I posted that last entry--seriously, I hit "post" while putting on my shoes--I went out and saw Sherlock Holmes again, this time with my mother. (A lot of times she waits for me to see a movie, to see if it's worth the money, and then if I like it, I get to see it again. Huzzah!) She really liked it, saying afterwards, "I didn't expect it to be fun!" Which tells me a lot about the popular conception of Sherlock Holmes. (She was also surprised to learn that the boxing wasn't made up--I seem to remember hearing that the guy Holmes is fighting is named "McMurdo" in the credits, which is also the name of the porter/ex-prizefighter in The Sign of the Four, who lets Holmes and Watson in once he recognizes Holmes as the guy who knocked him out at a benefit a while back.) Having reread A Study in Scarlet the night before, I suddenly realized that the bulldog ("My dog--" "OUR DOG!") in the movie is a reference to the "bull pup" Watson tells a certain future roommate that he has, and which we then never see or hear of again. Now that is some hardcore nerditry.
A final statement on the sexuality (or lack thereof) of Holmes as written, from "A Scandal in Bohemia":
To Sherlock Holmes [Irene Adler] is always the woman. I have seldom heard him mention her under any other name. In his eyes she eclipses and predominates the whole of her sex. It was not that he felt any emotion akin to love for Irene Adler. All emotions, and that one particularly, were abhorrent to his cold, precise, but admirably balanced mind. He was, I take it, the most perfect reasoning and observing machine that the world has seen; but, as a lover, he would have placed himself in a false position. He never spoke of the softer passions, save with a gibe and a sneer. They were admirable things for the observer—excellent for drawing the veil from men's motives and actions. But for the trained reasoner to admit such intrusions into his own delicate and finely adjusted temperament was to introduce a distracting factor which might throw a doubt upon all his mental results. Grit in a sensitive instrument, or a crack in one of his own high-power lenses, would not be more disturbing than a strong emotion in a nature such as his. And yet there was but one woman to him, and that woman was the late Irene Adler, of dubious and questionable memory.Which is why I feel that Watson is Holmes' True Love, for very specific values of "love." There it is.
(For those of you wondering when I'll ever shut up about Sherlock Holmes: IT'S NOT TWILIGHT, OKAY? So shut it and count your blessings.)
Meanwhile: omg so cold. I love it. It's already one o'clock, but it's still only 26°F, which means it only gets colder from here. In fact, we've got snow predicted for Thursday. The dogs are bored out of their minds because I won't let them stay outside longer than ten minutes at a time; I'm under a fleece blanket (NOT A SNUGGIE) in the den at my laptop, and I had to put on my huge floor-length coat and my gloves just to take them out front. (I do have a pair of full-coverage gloves, but I put on my favorites just because they are pretty: fingerless gloves recycled from toesocks, because a hole got into one of the toes, and they were too awesome to throw away. Bonus photo feature: My stubby little hobbit hand.)
(Speaking of accessories: the purse I decided on, because it's simple, and the grey-on-black paisley is interesting but casual. I'm going to try to fix my faux Fendi for more stylish occasions, but this looks like a good everyday bag. And it's from Etsy, yay.)
And I think I had something else to mention but I can't remember what but I'm sure I will later. Very busy, tons of work, trying to alternate footnotes with novel-writing, yay.