Upon my Impending Eighteenth Birthday

...and as I'm thinking about what I want, what I want to do, what I want to look back on this time of my life ten years from now and see...
You want to know what I'm honestly considering? Honestly? Don't freak out.
Ella, the one with the needle-phobia...
Ella, the one who tries her best to ignore the fact that she has veins...
and skin...
and blood...
(there's probably a name for that, but I don't know what it is)
..............I'm thinking of getting a tattoo.
Yes, you read that right. But go back and read it again if you don't believe me.
A tattoo.
What of? Good question.
Obviously, I would be careful. I'm careful about everything. I wouldn't pick anything I would ever come to regret.
~Either the word love on my left forearm,
~ a half-moon/letter C on my right calf (weird story there: I had a scar in the shape of a perfect C from bumping into the muffler on Dad's mini way back when, I liked the scar, the scar is gone now, a tattoo of a C/half-moon there would, admittedly, be cool),
~or something literary/writerly/ish

You wanna know something funny? It was Mum's idea. I was doodling on myself in Sharpie, and she just, kind of, suggested it. And I think she's actually behind it. Which is weird, 'cause she's always been kinda anti.
And you wanna know what's funnier? Daddy's not thrilled with the idea. Daddy, who's always said he'd get a tattoo if Mom'd let him.

I don't know. I'm gonna think about it, and pray about it, and . . . I don't know. I don't know if I could go through with it.
But I'm kind of in love with the idea.
What do you think?

Dear My Family,

......and especially the brother and the sister who continue to make fun of me for things I am enthusiastic about,
“…because nerds like us are allowed to be unironically enthusiastic about stuff… Nerds are allowed to love stuff, like jump-up-and-down-in-the-chair-can’t-control-yourself love it. Hank, when people call people nerds, mostly what they’re saying is ‘you like stuff.’ Which is just not a good insult at all. Like, ‘you are too enthusiastic about the miracle of human consciousness’.”
~John Green

In Which I am Found by a Deerstalker...

(image not mine)
This hat, probably, hopefully, calls up mental images for the average reader. I'm working on the assumption that it does.
You recognize this hat. You've seen this kind of hat before, and connect it, very directly, with one person and one person only. Well, one character, I suppose I should say.
Because of this fact, the fact that you, reader, recognize this hat without being told, I shan't elaborate on it's significance.
Well, I found one today. Or, more appropriately, one found me. I wasn't shopping for one on ebay, I didn't plug "Deerstalker" into Google's shopping search engine, I haven't been combing thrift stores and consignment shops for months in search of this hat.
I walked into Goodwill (I love Goodwill. Don't you love Goodwill?). With my mother, my sister, and my youngest brother. I am in search of a wall-hook, perhaps a VHS copy of Sleeping Beauty, and a lamp. Didn't find the lamp. Didn't find the wall hook. Decided against the movie. Found a small cork-board, which is something I have been wanting but didn't expect to find in a thrift store.
And then, I found the hat. I spotted it across the store, I made my way for it, slowly, like an animal to slaughter, I reached across a very understanding fellow shopper to pull it off its hook. I tied the ear-flaps up. I hid it in my arms, walked slowly over to my mother, tried to look her solemnly in the face (acheiving more of a mixture of masochistic grinning and sheer terror), and showed her the hat.
"My life will not continue without this hat," I said.
Mom rolled her eyes.
"No, it won't, you have to buy it," replied my little sister.
"Buy it. Buy it so I can steal it and wear it," replied my oldest brother, after my texting him half asking if I should get it, half complaining because, "These are the things that happen to me."
I bought the hat. I scolded Mom for ten minutes for letting me buy the hat. I grinned all the way to (and through) Wal-Mart because I owned the hat.
Mom: "What are you going to do with it?"
Me: "I don't know. Hide it? Pretend I don't own it?"
Seeing as how the hat was brand new (still had the tag), I decided to put it on even though it was technically second hand. I put the hat on.
I looked in the mirror. To my absolute dismay, not only did I, a passionate though embarrassed fan of that character whom the deerstalker evokes, just happen to FIND a deerstalker in my little podunk town's thrift store; I can pull it off.
Mom: "You can't hide that. That looks adorable on you. You have to wear it. Wear it to church Wednesday."
We arrived at Grandma's (picking up mail and a forgotten bookcase). I step out of the car wearing the hat. Grandma sees it.
Grandma: "Oh you got one of those new hats!!"
Me: .................................???

So, yeah. I own a deerstalker. But it's Not My Fault!!! I didn't go looking for it, I didn't want to find it. It found me! I couldn't've walked out of that store without buying it, I never would've forgiven myself. And then I would've gone back and it would've been gone and I would've been Depressed.
So now I have to sit here and stare at it. What in the world do you do with a deerstalker?


































Alright, fine. I'll say it. SHERLOCK HOLMES!

Happy?

Mmoooooviiiiing Daaayyyy

I'm pretty sure the last of the not-so-small army of moving-help just left (except for the pastor's wife and boys, who are helping with laying tile in the mudroom). All of the rest of our furniture is here, the couch is waiting to be put together, my trunk came, and everything is starting to look more, well, lived-in.
We were hugely blessed by the help we received from our church family throughout this whole ordeal, and it's so good to know how much people really care about my family, how much they were willing to help with anything we need. I, we, are really, truly grateful.
What I'm having a harder time being grateful for is this cold. I'm dizzy and sleepy and my throat is killing me and my nose is driving me nutty and I kind of want to curl up and die. I'm relatively certain the bug is courtesy of Corinne, someone remind me to thank her for it later. Woohoo.
Tomorrow should be quite a party. I'm not being sarcastic, actually. It'll be a party. After church we're headed to town to sort of, well, celebrate. Our Didn't-Break-the-Stupid-Vase party. See, the whole time we lived at Grandmas, there was this stupid glass vase full of strawberry candies sitting in this little corner. A very poorly-chosen corner. It's an absolute miracle we lasted more than a day without kicking it over, but we lasted two entire years. And Mom and Dad promised, at the start, to take us out for dinner if we managed to make it until moving day without shattering the blessed thing. And we didn't shatter it. So lunch in town, picking up a proper coffee pot (No more grainy, too-strong stuff from Dad's French press coffee pot!!), looking for rugs for the kids bedrooms and fabric to make chair-covers.

And because I'm still not good at the whole avoid-fangirl-stuff thin:I had a miniature spazz attack yesterday going through my boxes upon boxes of books. While I was fully expecting the paperback copy of The Hound of the Baskervilles, I was not anticipating the tiny-print, Bible-style double column printed little paperback of The Case-Book of Sherlock Holmes, The Valley of Fear, and His Last Bow. Yeah, mini-spazz-attack, complete with shrieking and happy-dancing. Okay, maybe not so mini. But anyway. The joys of moving, you find stuff you didn't even know you had. I guess I didn't care about Mr. Holmes when I packed my books up. Actually, I think I actively disliked him. Not so now, so it was quite a treasure.
And does anybody else have a bad habit of buying the same books over and over? As we've been weeding through box after box of books, I've noticed that I have duplicates of rather a lot of books. Apparently, I am incapable of walking by a copy of Julie of the Wolves or The Trumpet of the Swan or Alice's Adventures in Wonderland without buying it. Note to self: learn to break this habit. There is no point in owning more than one copy of Julie of the Wolves. I don't even really like that book!! *Sigh* I just might have a problem.

Home Sweet Home

Not a long post tonight, because frankly, I have other things to be doing. Like reading. Or writing. Watching Star trek. Or maybe eating some ice cream (mom got MY favorite kind this time!). But, I guess when it comes to things I do when I'm at HOME, blogging is one of them. So I decided to blog.
Tonight is to be our first night sleeping at the new house. We're not totally moved in yet. The television stand and the couch and my trunk and several other things have yet to come over. A small army from church is coming to help with that Saturday. But beds are here (mostly, I think Mom and Dad are on an air mattress), and everything else that is necessary to life. And as I'm sitting here in the living room (albeit in a temporarily placed dining room chair) with half my brain following the plotline of Star Trek:Deep Space Nine (okay, about a quarter on the plot, the other quarter is devoted entirely to how grand Doctor Julian Bashir is), all I can think is that this is home. Home is where you can take a deep breath, home is where you can feel safe and it's okay to be vulnerable. Home isn't diplomacy and dancing tip-toe around the way you feel.
I didn't know, before today, how different it would feel. We've been up here almost every day for two weeks, and it hasn't felt like this. But. Today, tonight is different, it really is. I don't know if it's because Mama cooked dinner here, or because there are sheets on my bed, or because Star Trek is here, or because there's a curtain on the shower, but somehow, it's different. This is home.
And in closing. Something I should've said a long time ago. Through this entire thing, these last two years at Grandma's, the whole "We're moving....we're not moving...we're moving!!!...we're not moving..." game we've played over and over again, I've been sitting here as a relatively-passive observer, watching God. Waiting to see what He was going to do. Every time I've thought He was going to get us out, I started to praise Him for it. Every time He took it away, I begged and shook my fists. And even though I KNOW that my God is good, regardless of my circumstances, it was still that same cycle. And I guess, being human, that's to be expected. We praise when good happens, and there's nothing wrong with that, as long as we continue to praise during the bad.
And reader? This one is good. This is sooo good. So right now I'm praising. I've been putting it off, waiting for Him to take it away again. But He's not. This one's for real. So I'm praising. And I think the most apt words came from a favorite singer/songwriter of mine, Ms. Bethany Dillon. In her song Exodus, she sang, "Lead, Lord, with unfailing love those that You have ransomed, and we will sing out as we go on, our God is faithful!"
My God is faithful. My God is faithful.

Collected Thoughts of a Long Day

~I hate mini-blinds. Pure, simple, unadulterated hatred. I hate dusting them, I hate that they exist, I hate them.

~I found a forty-some-song-long Athlete playlist on Youtube. Which made the cleaning of the mini-blinds slightly more bearable.

~The oldoldold Star Trek (Think: Captain Kirk) is Severely Sexist. Like, enough to bug even me, which is hard. I'm no die-hard feminist by any means.

~This. Ageanalyzer, you plug in a blog URL and it tells you the "age" of the blogger. Apparently, I blog like a 36-50 year-old woman. Woohoo.

~And lastly, even though I seriously try to avoid fannish-things here (I know, I fail pretty often) because nobody really cares, it's January sixth. Twelfth night. Which, according to some, is Sherlock Holmes' "birthday." So, the attempt to resist the temptation has failed, here you go:

221B

Here dwell together still two men of note
Who never lived and so can never die:
How very near they seem, yet how remote
That age before the world went all awry.
But still the game’s afoot for those with ears
Attuned to catch the distant view-halloo:
England is England yet, for all our fears–
Only those things the heart believes are true.
A yellow fog swirls past the window-pane
As night descends upon this fabled street:
A lonely hansom splashes through the rain,
The ghostly gas lamps fail at twenty feet.
Here, though the world explode, these two survive,
And it is always eighteen ninety-five.

– Vincent Starrett

Something Unexpected (But Beautiful)

Shortly before Christmas, I sort of got lassoed into baking several recipes of cookies. Old European recipes for different sorts of traditional Christmas cookies. Grandma remembered my fetish with foreign cookies earlier this year and asked me to bake a few recipes of different things for her various holiday parties and visits.
So a couple of days before Christmas, I spent the whole day in the kitchen making Danish pebbernodder and Dutch Jan Hagels and Irish lace cookies. My emotions were a little mixed: a whole day of Christmas baking with Christmas smells and Christmas music is just my idea of fun, trying out three new recipes for different sorts of foreign cookies on somebody else's money is really kind of perfect, but I was doing it all by someone else's request, not my own desire, so I was slightly lacking in motivation.
Then this morning, I learned something.
Mom, Grandma, and I were going through tins and bins of leftover Christmas cookies and deciding what to do with them all. Grandma was talking about how much she'd enjoyed the pebbernodder, Mom was scraping broken window cookies into the garbage can, and I decided to ask Grandma which type of cooking (for my own future reference) had been the most popular at her parties.
And she says, "Oh, I would say the lace cookies,"
She goes on to tell me how one guest, an elderly distant cousin, had taken one bite out of the cookie, and her whole face had lit up.
"Oh, I remember these," she said, "My grandmother used to make these!"

And for me, that sums up why I bake, why I like finding old foreign recipes. Why baking is important to me, why I hate the frozen vats of cheap chocolate chip cookie dough and little refrigerator cut-outs with seasonal pictures on them. Even why I, as much as I personally enjoy them, would rather not make normal cookies. Why I get bored of chocolate chip and peanut-butter and oatmeal-raisin. Everybody makes those. But these recipes that have history, you never know they're gonna mean something to somebody.

Frustrations of living in a world of seven billion people --- the friends of my little siblings. This one in particular. And if the boy child makes it out of here alive, it just might be a miracle.
Very few of my little brother's friends make me feel homicidal, but this one comes close. He's arrogant and loud and obnoxious and he's got a bad attitude and a cruel laugh. And whenever I tell him to do something, he laughs at me.
It's possible that he only bugs me so bad because he reminds me of somebody from a past life. Somebody who, if someone had decided to give him a nice hard smack upside the head when he was the age my brother's friend is now, he might've turned out a better human being.
And now they're watching Mars Needs Moms. Sounds like my idea of a party. Please note my entirely deadpan face. Bah Humbug.
But Anyway.

In other news, The Move is going well. Cleaning at the house is moving along nicely. Actually, it's quite finished. Mom and Dad got the kitchen clean, I scrubbed the (absolutely nasty) window sills and such and cleaned every square inch of my bedroom, the kids cleaned the baseboards and mopped the floor and mom cleaned the miniblinds.
Today we stayed at out current place of residence for the packing and the organizing and the weeding-out. Finally went through all my rubbish college mail, I may or may not be doing a somewhat amusing post about how many pieces of mail I got from each school. Got my bedroom totally ready to go, down to the bare minimums. Tomorrow, after various doctor's appointments and trying to get Anne and Andrew's orthodontist to believe that I'm their nanny (no particular reason, just trying to sell the cover story, for the fun of it), we'll go up to the house for . . . more doing stuff.
All that's left is painting in various places, shampooing the carpets, and a few minor repairs. *cue happy-dancing*

And, umm, let's see. What else is going on? Well, there's attempting to read two-hundred pages of John LeCarre's Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy by tomorrow afternoon. It's due back to the library. I don't usually freak out over due-dates (our library doesn't do the whole fine-thing), but last week when I went to renew it, I couldn't. Somebody else had reserved it. Which means somebody else wants to read this delightful book. Which means I want to get it to them as soon as possible. If they're like me, they want to read the book in time to see the movie. Or possibly, they saw the movie and now want to read the book. Either way, I can definitely identify. So I'd like to get them their book as soon as possible. Actually, I'd like to talk to them about the book, that would be nice. But let's settle for the one that's actually possible.

And, then there was last night's new episode of Sherlock. The one whined about in the post preceding this one. Well, I wasn't whining about the episode, I was whining about the forces of the internet combining to keep me from watching it.
So yeah, finally got it to load when the traffic on the website went down a bit, and it was, well, amazing. More than awesome, but I don't want to go into too much detail (spoilers!!). Let's just say... that only Steven Moffat could take the thing I had been dreading most about the episode, my absolute biggest fear, take ninety minutes, and turn it into the one thing I wanted most in the world by the end of the episode. It was emotionally trying in the utmost. I started the episode sitting on my bed with my laptop on my lap...and ended it on my side, curled up in a ball, with the laptop in front of me.
Of course, it wasn't perfect. I have my quibbles with the way they handled it. It wasn't quite canon, and there was a sizable bit of . . . yuck added in. Unnecessary yuck, but isn't that standard with everything these days? The ending was emotionally satisfying, but (can I say it?) a bit rubbish. Too easy. That's a pretty popular opinion, from what I can gather, and yet, I have to say, that I loved it completely even though I knew even as I watched it that it wasn't exactly a genius bit of writing.
All-in-all, it was so absolutely worth the ages-long wait, probably thirty or forty times over. Irene Adler was, for the first time in my experience, thoroughly likable, Ben Cumberbatch's Sherlock is as spectacular as ever, and the way they played Watson's reaction to the whole Sherlock/Adler thing was brilliant. And, wonder of wonders, Molly Hooper even redeemed herself. Really, bit of a confession here, I adore her to pieces. I have to admit I can identify more with her than any of the other characters.


...........And now that I'm done completely geeking out, I think that's about it for the moment. G'night, everybody. :)

Oh, this is SO just my luck......
Yesterday I was so proud of myself because I got the little FireFox plug-in to disguise my IP address so that BBC iPlayer would think that my computer is, in fact, a UK computer, thereby letting me watch BBC things when they come out on BBC.
It was working! I tested it! Actually, it's still working, on everything but what I want it to be working on.
Which is Sherlock! Which officially started half-an-hour ago. But nooo. I've been sitting here, trying to get it to work, for half an hour.
And I keep getting the same. error. message. "This content doesn't seem to be working. Try again later."
Because everybody on the planet is doing the exact same thing I'm doing. Attempting to watch the long awaited first episode of the second season of an absolutely brilliant show.
......................................lovely. So now I get to wait until traffic on the site goes down a bit. So, back to the packing-cleaning-organizing game for me. Woohoo.

Oh yeah. And Happy New Year!!! :)

Ella, Spider Hammer strikes again...

So. Erm. Umm. We're moving.
(!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)
I'm not going into details. I'm not, I'm really not, because I haven't the time.
And . . . I can't really go into my reaction. My response to it. Because it's not really cyberspace-safe. But . . . getting out of here, having a place of our own, I can't really tell you what that means to me.
And there's a lovely back deck and a clothesline and a hammock . . . and a gorgeous kitchen and a lovely little half-wall separating it from the living room that's just right for sitting . . . and I can bring my kitty with me, and she'll be safe and happy . . . and the neighbors are perfect . . . and it's a gorgeous old white farmhouse, which I love, with an oddly bungalow-type atmosphere, which is great . . . and there are two bushes of those lovely pink-and-white camellias like we had four houses ago . . . and I get my own room.
Yes, you heard me right. I get my own room. It's small, but that's perfect, and it's warm and sunny and has wood-paneled walls and lovely wooden blinds and it lends itself very naturally to the theme I want to take with it. So very naturally it was barely even a creative decision, more like just seeing what was there. I'm going for a sort of writerly, Victorian-era type feel, which will be . . . utter perfection.
So about the post title---- We were up at the new house today, cleaning (there's a lot of that to be done) and I'm attacking the cobwebs and dust bunnies and spider corpses (and a few live ones) in the corners and the ceilings and the window sills with a broom, sweeping and stabbing with a vengeance, which called to mind another similar time cleaning up at the church. I killed so many spiders that day that I made a couple of ill-fated jokes about finding some sort of name for myself (Ella, Spidersbane? Ella, Foe of Spiders? There's something in there, I just can't find it). So today, when I was doing quite the same sort of work, I had an epic little narration going on in my head about rousting the spiders and annihilating them. Spider Hammer strikes again?
Anyway, we'll be back up at the house tomorrow, and the next day, and basically every day for the next three weeks, when we'll just stop leaving. Things are going to get crazy. Wish me luck!

Four trailers . . . Oh, it's Christmas!

Yes, I try to steer clear of Sherlock-related topics on here, but sometimes it's just not possible.
Because BBC gave us four trailers . . . in one day!!! Add that to the two scenes from Scandal in Belgravia they gave us earlier this week, and you have absolute insanity. I think they're just trying to kill us with suspense so that all of their fans will be dead and cannot watch the new series. Or something like that. Because we're all gonna die.

Trailer one.
Trailer two.
Trailer three.
Trailer four.

Aaaaand the sneak peek scenes.

Would You Call This A Movie Review?

Or random ramblings on the topic of a movie I just watched? Either way.
So Toy Story 3. Never seen it before, didn't really feel like giving it the time of day. Saw it as corporate monster Disney milking one last sequel out of an old franchise.
But then I realize . . . that's not where they're coming from. That movie was the emotional climax of my generation. They waited this long very very on purpose. They were always going to tell that part of the story, but they waited until I, until we, those of us who were Andy's age at the start, are the age they wanted him at the end. Until that sad-sweet growing-up-time was where we were at in life. Because we've made the same journey as Andy, and now we are exactly where he is in the movie.
So, yes, no sequel is ever as good as the original, but this one really meant something. It was intentional.
And aside: That ending, people? Andy playing with the little girl? My kid brother is like, "Haha, what a dork!"
And in my head I'm like: "Come on, somebody tell me guys like that exist."

My Brain Right Now...

Consists, vaguely, of the paper I have due somehow pertaining to Jane Austen's Emma, trying to ignore the fact that I'm nowhere near ready for Christmas. A strange obsession with Scottie dogs that I can't entirely explain (ohmyword, I want one so bad). The novel I'm attempting to write; trying, as usual, to figure out what comes after high school; and the novel and the movie of Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy. Star Trek: Deep Space Nine; The fact that I'm turning eighteen in February; New season of Sherlock starting January first (and trying how to figure out how to watch it January first, outside the UK, without turning to piracy); and that stupid game Minesweeper.
And, yeah, I think that's about everything. Have a great day!


Lol. I'm joking. By far a bigger deal than Sherlock or Scottie dogs was my best friend's wedding this past weekend. Joy and her Mark were married Saturday morning; yours truly had the honor of being the maid of honor. Corinne, Reese, and Joy's roommate at college Sue were bridesmaids.
Friday evening, the wedding party and assorted friends and family of the bride and groom got the church all set up for the reception; then all the bridesmaids slept over (or rather, didn't sleep) at Joy's house. Woke up before dawn to leave for the ceremony. Which was at the beach. The BEACH. Yes, it is the middle of December. Your point?
All of us girls got dressed at the groom's grandmother's condo on the beach. Typical fighting with hair and makeup, finally getting to wear those gorgeous dresses we'd picked out (ensemble was grey sweater dress, teal scarf-belt, teal tights, lacy black ballet flats) then had the traditional honor of helping the bride into her dress, buttoning the back, etc. She looked absolutely gorgeous. :)
Me, Joy, and Corinne had a sweet emotional little moment waiting for the elevator. Hugs all around and tearing up enough to endanger our eye makeup.
Everybody but the bride hobbled down to the waterfront, absolutely freezing. Took our places opposite the groomsmen, waited for Joy and her father to appear over the ridge. Played a few bars of the wedding march on the kazoo, shivered through the beautiful ceremony, tried not to cry (can you imagine the pain of tears literally freezing onto your face?), tried not to laugh when the wind tossed sea foam over the heads of the wedding guests, or when the waves started licking the pastor's shoes.
Hobbled back up the aisle after the new Mr. and Mrs. --------; arm-in-arm with the best man (who reminded me enough of my father that I couldn't take him or myself seriously); wedding party pictures in the lobby of the condo; piled in a van with Corinne, Sue, Reese, the flower girl, and Joy's parents for the hour ride back to our church for the reception.
Read the note Joy wrote me, that I hadn't been quite brave enough, and had been depending too much on my makeup not looking raccoon-ish, to read when she handed it to me. Tried not to cry.
Reception; sitting at the head table nibbling at meat and fruit and a bowl of chicken noodle soup. Checked on Joy every few minutes. It has to tell you something about the kind of friends we are that we chatted about Doctor Who and quoted an entire scene from Meet the Robinsons. Some things never change.
Tried not to cry during Joy's incredibly sweet daddy-daughter dance.
Danced with the groom for about thirty seconds while the best man danced with Joy (to Song of the Cebu, oddly enough) to start off the "Dollar Dances," which is apparently a tradition, though I had never heard of it; then held the styrofoam cup out for anybody who wanted to pay a dollar to dance with the bride.
And the one time I really started crying: my Dad coming up, sticking a dollar in the cup, and dancing with my best friend. Watching the two of them dance and chat. I can't entirely explain why that was the moment, out of all of them, that got me, but it was.
Cha-cha slide and the Macarena; listened to my brother trying to get up the courage to ask his girlfriend (Corinne, had I covered that? Well, yeah, Andrew and Corinne=together. Everybody say it with me, "Awwww!!"), to dance with him. Snuck a dance with my baby brother Riley while giving him pointers on asking Joy's little sister to dance.
Tried (or pretended to try, knowing that there was absolutely no chance) to catch the bouquet. Held the pen and paper to scratch out what presents they got from who like a good maid of honor. Tossed birdseed at the happy couple as they made their way to the car, watched until they pulled out of the church parking lot, FIN.

People keep asking me if I'm sad, or trying to "commiserate" with me over losing my friend; and it's all I can do not to look at them like they've grown a second head. I'm not sad!! What kind of friend would I be if I could be so selfish as to be sad about the thing that has made her so happy? And you couldn't have watched the two of them during their first dance and not know that they are so happy.
I am over the moon happy for her, for both of them; and contrary to whatever anybody else seems to believe, I haven't lost a friend!! It's true that it'll be different now, because her husband has to be her best friend. That role doesn't fall to me anymore; and I'll definitely miss her, because we won't get to see as much of each other; but none of this means that I'm anything but happy for them both.
So, umm, congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. (I don't feel like making up fake last names).
Aaaaaand, now that's it. For reals this time. Ttfn!!
~Ella

If I have to slog through another Wikipedia article, I might scream...
This has been maybe the most frustrating (though definitely the most fun) research paper I've ever had to write. Most of the frustration stems from the fact that I know, off the top of my head, most of the information I want to use, but I still have to find something to cite for it.
Thus the slogging through Wikipedia articles.
So I'm breaking and blogging, yes in the middle of a school day, and yes my rough draft is due Monday, but whatever.
So I had a sweet little moment last night, with my precious kitten Trudy. Less of a kitten now, but anyway. So last night, when my kitten curled up in my lap and buried her head under my arm, when she rubbed her head on my glasses and licked my nose, well, it reiterated to me why I'm a cat person.
See, dog's best quality is that they're "loving," but the thing is, they're totally indescriminate. They'll throw themselves adoringly in a very Doug-like fashion at the feet of, well, just about anybody. Sure your dog loves you, doesn't that just make you feel special?
Now cats? Cats are choosy. Call it snobbishness if you want, but they don't adore just anybody. They've got a sadistic sense of humor, sometimes they'll choose to shower they're attention on the one person in the room who hates cats, but that doesn't bother me too bad. I usually think it's funny.
But when a cat really decides to like you? It means you're something special. For some reason, the great cat mind has judged you worthy.

In other, non-cat-related news, I'm finally getting somewhere in Spanish, which is grand. I feel like I'm actually starting to get the hang of the grammar system. Still not much for speaking it, but the way I figure it, that'll come with time.

By way of scheduling; tonight is the children's ministry Christmas party, which I may or may not go to help with, depending on how much of my paper I still have to get done (so I should probably get off blogger, huh?); tomorrow possibly cleaning at the church in the morning (which I may also stay home from in favor of research paper); Stock-the-Pantry party for Joy and Mark tomorrow night; Sunday. And that's the plan. Sound like fun? Lol.

Weeeelll, enough procrastinating. Getting back to the schoolwork now. Wish me luck!

It's Christmas Time Again

(no, not referencing that Third Day song, though I thought about it)
Can you believe it? It doesn't feel like it should be here, but it is. And today, it's definitely here.
There was cleaning this morning, with Grandma zipping around the house in her annual Christmas-decorating frenzy. Then Tabby's birthday party (which usually falls on the the first weekend of December, and kind of marks the opening of the Christmas season). She decided to go ice skating, which I absolutely adore. So I got to dust off my puffy coat and use my incidentally-matching gray hat/scarf/gloves. And the Christmas music and the time with friends, it's so definitely Christmas time.
Came home, had supper, and decorated the Christmas tree with my family, sat around the tree with the lights down low and sipped eggnog (and Constant Comment tea, quite a Christmas staple).
Christmas this year isn't quite how I'd have it, if it were all up to me. The Christmas tree is Grandma's artificial one, the ornaments are hers. Ours are buried in storage. And there's other stuff too, it's just, different this year, somehow.
Part of me wonders if it's just growing up. Does Christmas become less of a big deal the older you get?
The magic of the season is still there, it's still a big deal to me, but the older I get, the more disgusted I am of the consumerism of this time of year, from the stores to the commercials to the little kids whining for the latest craze to my kid brother begging for an iPod touch. My mind's ingrained reaction is, "But, that's not what it's about, Jesus is the Reason for the Season," or whatever.
But Confession Time: you know the scary thing? Jesus' birth isn't, really, the point of this holiday to me either. It's what Christians try to make it about, but it's really not! The scholars tell us that the birth of the Messiah lines up more with March, or September, but not December. We know that making December 25th about the birth of the king was really just a ploy on the part of the church to try to turn around a pagan festival into something the church could conscience. None of this is news to you.
But why is my Christianity still governed by this lie, this piece of propaganda that started circulating however many centuries ago? I still "celebrate" the birth of my Savior, in the wrong month, by giving and receiving gifts and all of the other trappings of the holidays. There are enough real reasons that I don't need a fakey reason to celebrate the God I follow three-hundred-and-sixty-five days a year. dThis. Isn't. Working. For. Me.
Now, the thing is, I'm not willing to give up Christmas because of this! But if it isn't about Santa Claus, and it isn't about Baby Jesus in the manger, then what is it?
I've found the answer. And, of all places, I've found it in Doctor Who. Last year, the Doctor Who Christmas special was set on a far-off planet, on that world's equivalent of Christmas. One of the characters explains it thusly,
"On every world, wherever people are, in the deepest part of the winter, at the exact midpoint, everybody stops, and turns, and hugs, as if to say 'Well done. Well done, everyone! We're halfway out of the dark.' Back on Earth, we called this Christmas, or the Winter Solstice. On this world, the first settlers called it the Crystal Feast."
Well done, everyone. We're halfway out of the dark. Isn't that what Christmas is about? It's about taking a moment to pause and step back from life. It's about the solstice, the longest night, the darkest day of the year; about shaking a fist at the elements and refusing to let the darkness around us seep into our soul. It's about brightening our world with little sparkling lights, making our kitchens smell heavenly, eating wonderful food, giving presents to the ones we love, and ringing silver bells to drive off the encroaching darkness. It's about making a reason to celebrate, or celebrating without a reason, in the very darkest part of the year.
So sure. Merry Christmas, if that's how you like it. Three cheers, well done, my fellow man. We're halfway out of the dark.

Home again, Home again . . . .

jiggety-jig, or so the nursery rhyme goes.
Except not really.
The whole time at Nana and Papaw's last week, I kept trying to figure out why I didn't feel like I was on vacation. It wasn't that I didn't get to relax, it was the most laid-back week of my life. It wasn't that I didn't have a good time, because I did! It was just that that sense of other-ness, like what you feel when you check into your hotel room, never set in.
That's not because it was a familiar setting. I've vacationed in familiar places before, and I still get that feeling.
Then last night it hits me. I didn't go on vacation. I went home.
For just shy of a week, we were at home. Not sure what that says about me, or us, or whatever. Not sure that I should post it online, but again with the "nobody reads my blog," excuse.

And in other news, want to kill some brain cells and pass a reasonably enjoyable couple of hours? Check out the (I think it's ABC Family?) tv show No Ordinary Family. A souped-up, lengthened version of The Incredibles, minus JackJack. It's passably clean (watch out for Daphne in the first few episodes and Kate's romantic relationship around episode seven for content, but otherwise). The plotlines are trite and not very well thought out, but entertaining; the characters are pretty static, but the acting is surprisingly good. And besides, with this guy? I forget what I've seen him in (and don't recognize anything in his imdb profile), but I know I've liked him in something else.
.......because that was such a meaningful use of half a blot post. Woohoo.

I have been one busy girl these days, so it's been hard to get to my blog, like, at all. This might've been obvious due to the length of time that my most recent blog post has been on Steven Moffat's birthday. So . . . yeah.
Happy day-after-Thanksgiving. Leftover sweet potato casserole and college football . . . my idea of a party. I'm not being sarcastic. For as much as I don't really care about sports, watching my family watch football is entertaining to say the least.
We're all feeling a little throwback this week, me, Mom and Dad, and the siblings are "out of town" staying with my grandparents. Out of town being, half an hour from home, so maybe we're overstating the situation, but there's an element of "over the river and through the woods" that makes it all okay.
Really, it's a change of scenery. And after two years of essentially the same thing, a change of scenery is enough.
It's been a really sweet time so far. Watching movies together and playing cards and just kinda chilling. "Family" devotions have taken on a fun group discussion feel, with Nana and Papaw sitting in. Interesting conversation this morning, about me and Mom and Dad's whole "Model is Broken" approach to church and Christianity. So yeah.
Joy's bridal shower was last weekend, which was also a sweet time. Little buttons you have to give up if anybody catches you saying the groom's name and swapping funny stories about the happy couple and identifying yourself by your relationship to the bride (Ahem, Bride's best friend, tyvm. Hahaha.) Cake with edible ball-bearings and the classic maid-of-honor role of scratching down who gave what. All a little stereotypical, but definitely in a good way. :)
My story (You know, Sherlock Holmes and the undisclosed title and whatnot?) is going well. Really well, actually. Never easy, but well.
And speaking of Sherlock ('cause aren't we always?), the season two of the new BBC series hits in (drumroll please?) JANUARY of next year. Very big grin.
Just finished Frankenstein for school. I can Quite Honestly say that I enjoyed it the LEAST of any book I've read this year. Paradise Lost included. It literally went flying across the room when I was done with it. The ending was (for the sake of spoiler-free-dom) Horrible. Just horrible.
But I get to read Gulliver's Travels next week, so it's all okay.
Aaaaand, I think that's it for now. Gotta go help with stuff. Thanks for reading!
~Ella

Happy birthday, Steven Moffat!

A Christian in the Fandoms (and related ramblings)

Can't I write a term paper without it having to be about something that I have to figure out in my own life? I mean, like, turnip commerce in Norway or something? Is that too much to ask? But noooo.
Internet Culture, Mass-produced Individuality, and Fandoms. Or something along those lines.
So now what? I have to figure out where I stand. Ugh. But what are blogs for, eh? Yes, a lot of this pertains to my earlier post about tumblr blogs, but whatever.

I'm a highly social individual. I need people, I need to talk and know that someone is listening. I need to feel like part of the group.
I'm also a highly sheltered individual. Homeschooler, don't leave the house, friends at church, but . . . yeah.
And, big shocker, I'm kinda, sorta . . . shy. Awkward. Socially useless.
Plus I'm kind of a nerd! No, really, I'm serious. I just am. I'm resigned to the fact. Star-Trek-watching, Doctor-Who-loving, sci-fi-geek-talking nerd!
All this combines to mean . . . the Internet is a pretty comfortable place for me. Online my awkwardness becomes tongue-in-cheek, my cynicism becomes snarky. It doesn't matter what I look like, because who uses their own pictures anyway? I can become exactly who I want to be, and my personality, which seems frightfully random in real life, is suddenly reconciled into something that makes sense. Know the lingo, know the memes, or have a good enough command of Google and Urban Dictionary to fake it, and you're a part of the group. A couple of keystrokes, a couple of clicks, and you've found scads of like-minded people.
And what better way to be with like-minded people than in a fandom? True, it's more a relative term than a place, but it doesn't seem like that. It's a virtual place, for a bunch of fabulously geeky people who all love the same thing. Obsession becomes the norm, rather than a thing that gets you eye-rolls from your friends and heavy sighs from your family. Seriously, the thicker your obsession, the more respect you'll have from other -insert lame-and-proud-of-it fandom name here- (i.e. trekkies, whovians, etc.). Fandoms can be fierce and protective and warmly welcoming and have something that's as akin to team spirit as somebody like me will ever get. Fandoms are people who put up all kinds of mischief and shenanigans that would, likely, make the stars and writers of the respective tv shows/movies/games/etc. blush. (Don't believe me? Go to google, start typing in "Martin Freeman is," and let autofill finish the sentence.)
But with a little insight, it's easy to tell that it's just a bunch of lonely people finding something in common with other lonely people. It's born of the psychological need for acceptance. There's bluster and pride covering it up, but that's the truth.
And there's the bulk of my hang-up. As a Christian, is it okay that I find these places, these groups of people, comfortable? Is it okay that some part of me seems to fit in here? I mean, God is all I need, and I've got a lovely family and lots of friends besides. Should I allow myself to enjoy that kind of fannish society? And that obsession? I mean, it's not an unhealthy obsession, none of the "fandoms" I consider myself a part of. It's just stories and characters I'm passionate about! I'm not one of the people that kills days making fan art and wastes oodles of money on costumes for cosplays. I actually sleep at night, instead of obsessively rewatching old seasons of the tv show. I've always had too much of a life, and too many responsibilities, and this inconvenient little thing called SCHOOL that's kept me from ever being a big part of any online community. I'm more of a passive observer. But . . . is it okay?
Things get more more complicated with the Sherlock part of things. The BBC series, written by Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat, is sort of spectacular. And it's highly devoted fandom has created lots of very entertaining fanart and added extremely comical subtexts to screengrabs from the show and made fan videos montaging unrelated scenes in ways that give it new, hilarious, meaning. It's great, it's funny, it's entertaining.
But many other fans are people without my religious/moral scruples about what is acceptable entertainment and what isn't. Doctor Who, which was my first experience with web-based fangirling, showed some evidence, but Sherlock is even more so. There is language that I would NeVeR (!!!!!!) use in real life, but have learned to skim over without noticing online. There is . . . content . . . that is pretty shocking to my sensibilities and my belief system. I can scroll past awkward, cartoonish drawings of John and Sherlock holding hands (or etc.) fast enough that I don't really feel affected affected by it, but should I stay away anyway, even though the rest is fun and entertaining and sometimes uproariously hilarious?
Where do I draw the line on what is acceptable and what isn't? I mean, I know, Philippians 4:8, " whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable--if anything is excellent or praiseworthy--think about such things." But . . . that leaves so much room for opinion. It's not a fixed line. The person who wrote my English curriculum last year argued that while Edger Allan Poe's fiction is not Christ-like or God-honoring in anyway and she personally disliked them (I proceeded to enjoy Poe's work to the extreme. . .), he wrote comparatively "excellent" horror stories, ergo, it's all okay by the yardstick of Philippians 4:8. So if it's excellent geekery and fan-stuff, then . . . does this logic apply?
It's hard to be a Christian online altogether. And I'm not talking about Facebook, that's practically real life. Same people you deal with, same faces you see every day. My grandmother has a Facebook, and she polices my page constantly. So, there's no lack of accountability there, to put it lightly.
I don't mean Blogger either. Blogs are great, even (especially?) if you're like me and nobody really reads it anyway. But, to put it bluntly, "Hi, Dad!" 'Nuff said.
I'm talking about the writing website where nobody uses their real names. I'm talking about the youtube community where you quickly learn what gets hits and what doesn't. I mean that other little social networking site, the Myspace wannabe, that you created a profile on out of curiosity, and you don't actually know anyone on your friends list.
You hang out in the forums, you quickly learn how people talk, and as a writer, I appreciate unique, or especially applicable, language. Unfortunately, sometimes that includes swearing, which is something I just don't do. But if the right word for what I'm trying to communicate happens to be a profanity, ugh! It's hard!
Then there's always that handy excuse that the Internet is just a new place, a new way, to be a witness to people. Sheesh, I've even used it myself, and in youth group no less! But let's be honest, people. Is there a (non-Facebook!) website we're a part of where we'd even think of witnessing to someone? I mean, sure, sometimes it'll work, but nine times out of ten, it'll just get you dismissed. You're, all of a sudden, another one of those Christian crazies, who can't leave their religion out of anything, and infringing on their rights not to be bothered when they're in their forums. And I'm not being critical, either. How could I? When even I have been guilty of wincing at a fellow Christian turning a conversation around to the things of God when that was . . . not the point. It's annoying. Is that a sinful attitude?
I guess the Church only has herself to blame, we've allowed ourselves to become ridiculous in the sight of the world, which would be why people don't take us seriously. We've allowed ourselves to be pushed out of involvement in the governing of our country, so they can claim we're 'infringing on their right' to not hear the Name of their Creator. And anyway, we should be a witness for Christ in our personal lives. We shouldn't need the Internet. But I digress.

And even "Christian" part aside; the Internet is such an enigmatic thing. It's populated by people who feel safe in their illusion of anonymity, and who have the opportunity to recreate themselves. The attractive young Asian girl you think you're talking to could be thirty, from Tennessee, and a guy. But even if it's not so blatant, we're all guilty of it. What else is an "About Me:" for? I mean, nobody ever really reads those things! It's just a chance for people to decide who they want to be. Here's one of mine from another website:
I'm a non-conformist, I guess is how you'd put it. Sixteen-year-old hippy, minus the drugs and the political blah. Homeschooler all the way, and proud of it, babe. If it doesn't involve my family, my friends, or my church, or some combination thereof, you probably won't catch me doing it. I'm a writer, or I'd like to be one, depending on your definition of the word writer. I'd like to call myself a writer, at the very least. I live life to the fullest, I'm myself no matter what anybody else thinks.
Well, it's definitely how I see myself, but I doubt anybody I know would describe me as such. And that's just it, I was given the opportunity to reinvent myself. Is that really safe? We've created this society of suppressed people who are out of touch with reality. Which is how there's phenomena like the "FarmVille Mom," and the geeky kid who buries his head in his most recent fanfiction, in the world that's more real to him than his own.
Some people use the Internet for evil, it's true. Of course, some use it for good (and more good). The vast majority, however, seem entirely neutral. If our ancestors would be shocked by the technology my generation has access to; instant world-wide communication, all the information I could ever want at my fingertips, etc.; I think they would be much more surprised by what we've done with it. At first glance, the Internet seems a vast, interconnected mass of cheeseburger-loving cats with bad grammar, *ahem* "Rickrolling," and this guy. So, really, what's the nature of the beast?
I can't even write without using the Internet anymore. Like how folks will hand-write "<3" instead of drawing a heart. I use emoticons and an abundance of punctuation to express emotions, italics for emphasis and *gives example* asterisks to show action. Note my masterful use of hypertext! It saves me the time and effort of explaining anything my reader might not instantly understand; gives me the power to make an effortless joke, pun, or sight gag instantly. Seriously, I don't know how I'm going to write a paper without it.
So I'm going to have to figure out where I stand on all of this in order to write a convincing paper. Or maybe I'll crank out fifteen pages on those Norwegian turnips. What do you think?

Happy Monday Morning!!
I usually hate Mondays, but so far this one's alright. I guess this past weekend was such insanity that a bit of routine is welcome.
Friday night was the sleepover some of us put together as a sort of last-splash-with-her-girls for Joy before her wedding. No, not the bachelorette party. That's something entirely unrelated. We ate cookies (*snort*), played Just Dance (3!!!), goofed off with some highlighters and my blacklight, watched our favorite movie, and got about four hours of sleep. Typical us-girls sleepover, but kind of perfect.
Next morning mom picked up me (and Isabel, whose mom said she could only come Friday night if she found somewhere to stay Saturday night) and took us to the church for an Epic Cleaning Session. Came back to the house, napped, cut the grass, finished choreographing the Christmas dance, watched Doctor Who, woohoo.
Sunday. Ugh. Church in the morning with all it's insanity (plus helping in the kids' Sunday School Class. I got to work with Noah, though, so it was all okay). Then all-day dance practice for aforementioned Christmas dance (What Child is This, MercyMe), with eleven girls ages seven-fifteen. Soreness. In. Bones.
Sunday night= babysitting for Women's Bible Study, Men's Bible Study, and New Members class, all at once. Eight kids: An eight-year-old girl, three five-year-old boys, Noah (nine years old, but also blind, so, yeah), Emmy (three, but mentally about thirty), and a nine-month-old. All in our church's nursery. A movie going, a bunch of crayons, my cell phone for Noah, some blocks and a couple plastic trolls for the boys, a stuffed puppy for Emmy, and utter chaos. But the baby makes it all okay. She is absolutely the most precious thing on the planet. Just old enough that I'm not scared to hold her for fear I'll break her, but to little to cause trouble. Kind of awkward, though. Last night one of the kids asked if she was mine. I'm like . . . No. Just no. *heebie-jeebie-shiver-shake*
So I came home exhausted, and sore, but it was a brilliant, happy kind of exhaustion.
Aaaand now I'm rewarding myself for surviving this past weekend with a little bit of delicious first-schoolday-of-the-week procrastination. Killed some braincells on my favorite rabid fandom blogs; one for Doctor Who and one for Sherlock. I'm so glad there are people more obsessed than I am to make fanart and gifs and catch hilarious parallels so that slightly-less-obsessed people can waste time on tumblr looking at them.
I really need to stay out of the BBC Sherlock fandom, though. It is NOT helping my story. Actually, it's brought on a rather vicious attack of writer's block. Too much with the crazy fans *ahem* "shipping" the concept of John and Sherlock as the, erm, odd couple, if you catch my drift. It tends to get inside your head, which is very distracting when you're trying to write YOUR John and YOUR Sherlock as, well, nothing of the sort. And besides, trying to write this:

With a brain full of this: (seriously, click the pic, it gets better)

Just. Doesn't. Work.
Ugh. Wish me luck.
Have a great day!
~Ella