New Beginnings

It's been a while since I've updated, but I've gotten a new job.  While I would love to write all about that, my first few weeks have actually been filled with some sort of mystery illness that has been keeping me useless. Of course, I should have counted on an opportunistic little microbe at the worst possible moment, but no one ever expects an infection in their facial nerve.

Commence diabolical laughter

You know the saying that life is the one thing you can't get out of alive?  My body really thinks of that as a challenge, just to see how close to dead I can get.  Thus, I started out my new job with a droopy eye, losing the hearing in one ear, unable to feel my face, and so darn tired and dizzy that I could barely stand. Turns out, that isn't really the best way to start out work in a lab environment. 

Eventually, I had to have a work physical because these people are nosy, and I was afraid of what, exactly, to tell them.  Actually, I was a bit curious as to why I had to have a physical at all, because I had never heard of a blood test that would predict whether or not I'd directly inhale 12M HCl or drink the methanol, which means I should be physically able to handle the job.  Really, they just want to have a baseline, so that when I get closer to dead, they'll know it wasn't their fault.

I filled out the questionnaire, wondering if I should use clarifying phrases in the interest of full disclosure. "Here's a list of things I shouldn't be, but actually am, allergic to."  "I hope you like games, because you're the next contestant on Diagnosis: Mystery!"  "Sometimes I make Darwin cry." 

The occupational nurse was a bit over-panicky, asking over and over again if I was nervous as she was taking my blood pressure.  Well, I'm getting less sure every time you ask, actually, so thanks for that.  She went on about my weight and pulse, thinking I should see a cardiologist as soon as possible, or a gym, and then, finally, we got to the conversation about my current headache (there's a headache questionnaire, too), which didn't turn out at all well.

Me:  I've had this headache before.

Nurse:  You mean you've had this same kind of headache?

Me:  No, I mean this exact headache.  I recognize it.  His name is Balboa.

Nurse:  As in Rocky?

Me:  As in Vasco Núñez de.

Nurse:  Who is that?

Me:  In 1513 he took a little trip, through the Isthmus of Panama into the Pacif...ic.  That didn't sound as good as it did in my head.

Nurse:  Are you making this up?

Me:  Well, not entirely.  He did discover the Pacific, and with sword in hand, he claimed all lands touching the body of water for Spain.  It was, in retrospect, a pretty lofty goal.

Nurse:  And the headache?

Me:  Well, this is the same headache, with the same symptoms, as when I had my concussion last year.  I wasn't sure at first, but I recognize that feeling like someone has stuck a sword in and claimed my brain, and all the little synapses are like the indigenous peoples, whose spears are no match for the armor and muskets of the conquistadors.

Nurse:  That's a pretty dramatic interpretation of a headache.

Me:  My pulse is 95, and you think I need to see a cardiologist today. At least my drama has entertainment value.

Nurse:  Fine.  I'll just say that this isn't normal.

Me:  Nothing about me is, really.

Nurse:  And the headache is related to the...

Me:  Vestibular neuritis.  Maybe.  Who knows?  I've decided this is all related to the Spanish Inquisition.

Nurse:  How so?

Me:  Because nobody expected it.  I can't believe you just walked right into that.

Nurse:  Right.  So, this Balboa guy is real?

Me:  Really dead, but he was, yeah.  I do have one other symptom that didn't go with the concussion.  It's like those children's books, but instead of See Spot Run, it's more like, Look at All the Spots I Can't See!  

Nurse:  So, do you think you need to go home?

Me:  Nah, I've gotten really good at logically filling in the missing spots for the few minutes my vision goes.  It's all good.  I don't need to see to learn, as luck would have it.

Nurse:  Okay, I'll just say you need to have an update at your actual physical.

Me:  If it makes you feel any better, I promise not to drink the methanol.

Nurse:  I'm new here.  Does that happen a lot?

Gotta love the newbies.

Whoever Said Pictures Are Worth A Thousand Words Probably Regrets That Now

So today was picture day for me to be in the church directory.  I hate pictures of myself, and so, of course, I make myself anxious.  I read all the advice they give you, noting that they're probably giving advice because I'm not the only person to dread this event.

Remember that the camera adds 10 pounds.  Yeah, about that... This is 2014.  Isn't it about time for the camera to add something nice, like a positive self-image and a puppy?  Or maybe we could have competing cameras, where you get to choose which one adds the most benefit to your life.  This camera adds another 5% to your 401k, but that one adds a free trip to Disney World!  Oh, and that one adds front row tickets to the concert of that boy singer that all the tweens and creepy moms like.  See?  These are options I can work with.  I don't really need an extra 10 pounds, thanks.

I went through my entire closet, trying to pick an outfit, as if this were the most important decision of my life, but then I would remember that they recommended solid colors.  Oh, don't forget the long sleeves.  Nobody cares if you spontaneously combust, so long as that picture gets taken first.  (And I guess I agree with the long sleeves thing, because I hate my bye-byes.)  I went through the closet, discovered I had nothing to wear, and had to start all over again.  Finally, I settled on something I didn't hate.

Consider bringing with you a sentimental item or an item that says something about you.  What exactly would that be, a book and a jar full of sarcasm?  At the moment, I wish I could bring a margarita from Chuy's, but I see how that might be inappropriate for church pictures.  "Hey, really, this margarita means a lot to me.  You have no idea."  At best, I could show up with something I baked, because that would make sense, and also possibly draw attention away from my face.  "Hey, camera, focus on this beautiful rum cake, all right?"  I thought about bringing something completely random, like a Jew's Harp or a washtub bass, because those things would probably say a lot of interesting things about me, but I am all out of hillbilly instruments.  And what if I decided to bring an object that says something about someone else?  It might be more appropriate, in any case.  Who cares if I end up on Awkard Family Photos?  That's more my style, honestly.

To add to the stress of the day, I also had to bake four separate dishes and prepare my apartment for my parents, who decided to visit for the holiday weekend.  I swear I never make a bigger mess than when I am trying to clean.  Suddenly, I realize I must go through everything I own for that one thing I remember needing to donate, or I find that I am overcome by an intense urge to remove every cookbook from the bookshelf and rearrange them by color.  This is so much more important than cleaning, of course.

So I was preparing my final dessert, pitting fresh cherries for browned-butter cherry bars, and they turned out lovely.  Then I looked down at my hands and realized they were so purple, I looked like I'd just killed Grimace with my bare hands, just in time for picture day!  I was on it.

Sorry, childhood.

Somehow, I managed to get everything clean and started on the process of covering myself in make-up, lest my face be washed out by the flash.  Everything came together, at last, and I headed out the door with my desserts, a change of slightly-less-stuffy clothes (a brewery t-shirt and capri pants), a water bottle, and my purse.  

As I got to the bottom of the stairs, juggling everything and searching for the unlock button, I saw, just one second too late, that my car was covered by a flock of pigeons.  This probably deserves an explanation, and the short version is that everyone in my apartment complex is crazy.  One such crazy lady believes her porch to be Luby's for the hungry animals of Austin, and the space in front of her apartment is usually the only one I can find.  So why was I too late?  Because I had already unlocked my car, and the horn went off, sending a hundred pigeons flying every which way, and literally scaring the shit out of them.  Thankfully, none of them landed their droppings on me....oh, but wait, what's that running all down my shirt?  So then the process started all over again, until I could find the second least hated outfit in my wardrobe. 

To make matters worse (because no one ever begins a sentence by making them better), my neck started itching.   When I looked in the mirror, I saw it was covered in red blotches that were either a physical manifestation of all my emotions or an allergy to bird poop.  The entire hour long drive to the session had me thinking over and over that I needed a turtleneck.  What if I looked like I was covered in hickeys for a church photo?  Re-check the mirror.  No, it definitely looks more like I rubbed up on a cactus.  Maybe a large paper bag over my head would solve the whole problem, and I could even count it as an object that makes a statement, so long as that statement is, "She really hates pictures of herself."

Really, none of this is worth it.  I think next time everyone should just submit drawings of themselves, or maybe a picture of their favorite person from history with an explanation as to why they chose that person.  At least that would be more interesting, right?  And, because I like being alone, I could also use it to determine who is worth facing my social anxiety for.  "Oh, yeah, you chose Edison.....I think this isn't going to work out."

I arrived just in time for my photo and signed in, when I saw a friend of mine.  I asked her to give me a once over, though if Jesus himself came back and said I looked perfect, I'd still think my nose was too big, my teeth too small, and my smile too lame.  In Texas humidity, my hair was near-afro, and she admitted that it looked smooth and fine as long as I pulled it down.  Once I let go, I could go back to 1980 and shoot JR.  My favorite part, though, was when the photographer helped me to pick out the best picture.  We settled on the only one that wasn't awful, though as he put it, "No, really, it is the best, and you probably should always take pictures from this side."  When he asked if I wanted to purchase extra, I almost smacked him.  

There should be a reward for getting through this day.  (In fact, I'm still up for a margarita.)  I know a picture may be worth a thousand words, but I'd much rather submit the essay.  

Still regretting the fact this wasn't in my picture.

In the Summertime, When the Weather is Hot

It's time for an unpopular confession that has plagued me since childhood.  I really hate summer.  Every year, the swimsuits are smaller, the ads are hokier, and the sun seems hotter.  It's not that I dislike outdoor activities.  In fact, I love being outside.  I just hate being warm.

I see people outside every day in Austin, and from the refrigerated interior of my car, they seem to be having a great deal of fun.  These people are biking, running, kayaking, and all of them look as if they are enjoying a beautiful 70 degree day.  If I so much as step outside of my vehicle, I break into a flop sweat worthy of Airplane!, and nothing I do makes it any more bearable.

"Oh, have you been swimming?"

"No, I just woke up."

The most damaging part of summer, though, is the clothing.  I'm so hot all the time that I should want to wear as little clothing as possible (or at least enough that I won't get arrested), but genetics are evil.  All of these beautiful people in Austin (those ones who were smugly running and bicycling earlier on in the post) wear shorts, and their complexions are perfect. The lovely, uniform tan is so perfect there is even a meme comparing it to processed foods.  Don't know what I'm talking about?  Google "hot dog legs" right now. Seriously, go.  There's an entire tumblr dedicated to pictures where you have to spend actual time trying to decide if you're looking at someone's vacation from their own supine point of view, or if they're just holding hot dogs in front of a camera.

Wait, why am I jealous, again?

And then there's me.   My legs are so pale that I have people tell me all the time how white/pale/ashy/translucent they are. It doesn't matter how sexy they would have been back in Victorian times, because living in the here and now is so unfair.  Adding insult to injury (literally),  I fall down every few days just to keep things interesting.  Any little scar or mark stays on my skin for months, so the scratches and bug bites are pretty much the only source of color I have.  If I go into the sun, the spots of color stand out in such a way it looks like Jackson Pollack stole some of George Hamilton's tanning lotion and used my skin as a canvas for a drip painting.  (But hey, at least I don't sparkle.  I've got to be thankful for something.)

See those fun spots on my feet that look like the aftermath of a deadly pox?  Those are from where a bunch of fire ants decided to climb into my shoes and throw a party, because being me is like an episode of I Love Lucy for people who like to have whiskey for breakfast and say "bless your heart" a lot.  

So yes, summer sucks, but there's good news.  I've decided to start a new meme that's more inclusive for those of us who have issues with summer.  We can't all have hot dog legs, but that doesn't mean we can't look like food.  Some of us have skin tones more like chocolate or cinnamon, rather than a hot dog.  (I swear my dog just snorted as I was typing this, the jerk.)  In my case, the only things my legs look like are parsnips, but at least they're a healthy and delicious food that don't contain mystery ingredients.  (I'm talking about the hot dogs here, not my legs...)

I'm sexy, and I know it.

The other good news is the Ice Bucket Challenge.  This is an activity I can really support.  Every day that I dump ice water on myself is a day that the flop sweat doesn't win.  Bonus:  I'll be helping out a fantastic charity that will hopefully rid the world of a terrible disease someday.  If you also suffer from heat depression and/or flop sweats, learn how to do the Ice Bucket Challenge here: What's cooler than being cool? ICE COLD!  You, too, can help yourself survive the summer while also helping the world to be a better place.

Stay cool, friends.  It's almost over.


UPDATE:

Here's my video, for anyone who wants to see just how silly and awkward I am in real life.  I really do like to use the word gubernatorial, because I think it's funny, but apparently I got nervous and had to stutter my way through that one.  Oh well.  Enjoy!

O Captain! My Captain!

It's taken me a while to write and edit this post because I needed time to process what happened yesterday.  I lost a friend.  I grew up with a lovable alien from Ork, who taught me to sit upside in chairs, though the adults in charge never seemed to think it was acceptable behavior.  I thought having an egg I could crawl into would be the coolest, coziest thing ever, and I learned from experience that one should never put dandelions in their mouth.

Robin Williams invaded my childhood by force with his many movies, whether he was voicing a much beloved Disney character or helping us believe in fairies.  I have to admit that Mrs. Doubtfire was the movie that stole my heart.  It taught me about divorce, the power of love parents have for their children, that food allergies are very serious, and why you should never bring a donkey to a party.  (And come on, run by fruiting?  That provided the greatest excuse for childhood scuffles in the universe.)  My heart was so sad every time I watched the movie, because I knew Mrs. Doubtfire wasn't a real person.  By the time the movie came out, I was old enough to realize that Mickey Mouse was a guy in a really hot costume and my parents lied about Santa and the tooth fairy.  Neither of these facts upset me nearly as much as knowing that Mrs. Doubtfire, who seemed like the perfect houseguest, would never be seen again.  (Honestly, I was even more put out that I didn't have a British cross-dressing nanny, because my life could have turned out so differently, but that's a different story altogether.)

As I grew up, the jokes became funnier, and I had the good fortune to realize Robin Williams was just as good at dramatic acting, evoking many emotions I didn't even know existed.  I've seen almost every movie he has ever made.  No, I never met Robin in real life, but I feel like he influenced me in many ways.

I have hope, since his tragic death, for many things.  First and foremost, I hope that he has found the peace his tortured soul needed.  He deserves it.  Secondly, I hope that we as a society can finally come to the realization that mental illnesses need just as much focus, care, and study as their physical counterparts.  These diseases are sometimes more painful than any physical symptom or disease could ever be, and we need to learn compassion in treating and helping those who suffer.  People who find the courage to seek treatment should never be made to feel as if they can just "get over it" or try harder.  These diseases are out of the sufferer's control, and they can no more fix themselves than a person with cancer can put themselves into remission.  I hope we can finally learn that this is a serious problem and that every resulting death is a tragedy we must seek to prevent.

Lastly,  I hope that any person who suffers in any way will find the strength to seek help in whatever form they need it.  At the very least, please talk to a friend.  While no one can truly understand the plight of another person, there are always those who will listen.  Please, call me.  Email me.  Come stay on my couch in the apartment that is always a total wreck because I, too, face days where the pressure of the world is too much, and I just can't do it.  I know that life can be complete shit with no relief in sight or light at the end of the tunnel.  I know what it is to be so overwhelmed with worry and fear that you just wish you could stop feeling everything.  In fact, this blog hasn't been updated in nearly a year.  I've written so many things and then immediately deleted them all because I knew they weren't good enough, that I wasn't good enough. These struggles are my own, but I will help in any way that I can, even if it is just to listen or cry along with you.

The truth is, there is no magic answer to solve these problems, and the solutions may require a patience that seems impossible to achieve on top of everything else.  But the bigger, more important truth is that you are not alone.  You are worth it, you are good enough, and you are loved, despite the fact that your brain tells you otherwise.  You are needed, right here and right now.  Depression lies, and so many of us have to remind ourselves of that fact every day.  Please, reach out, and I promise you will realize just how many of us there are.  We are bigger than the lies, and we will face them together.

We need to remember Robin Williams for the many laughs he gave us, and the gifts of his talents he so selflessly shared, but we must also remember the man and the struggle and always do our best to help others so we can make this world a better place.  I believe it's what he would have wanted.

Nanu nanu, my friends.

Why You Should Celebrate Today

I'm not good at taking breaks from work.  The thing is, I can't sit still without getting twitchy and restless, so I have to read or write to make it through.  Today, however, I had an idea.  Seeing as it's a holiday, I was going to celebrate it.

Technically speaking, it is Columbus Day, which is a day that I don't celebrate at all.  Most people probably don't even notice, unless they actually have a day off from work or school.  Some people probably remember learning the silly rhyme about 1492 or how Columbus proved that the world was round rather than flat.  Sadly, that little misconception is still being taught to children today.  Why?  Who knows.  Maybe it's just easier to teach kids to say Columbus instead of Eratosthenes.

I've detested Columbus Day and all that it stands for ever since the day I read on my own and realized that some of the lessons I had learned in school weren't exactly correct.  From that day forward, I decided I was going to have to learn "truth" on my own and do the best I could to help others find that truth, too.

As far as human rights go, I am part Native American, mostly Irish, and all female.  This means that my ancestors and I know what it means to be less than.  As an adult, I discovered that Native American friends of mine saw this as a day of mourning rather than celebration, so I decided to help protest its existence.  For the last several years, I've written Congress to suggest that we honor someone else.  There are many men and women who have done good deeds or influenced and inspired Americans to achieve their dreams, so we have a big list.  But speaking of great women, wouldn't it be nice to have a federal holiday dedicated to Amelia Earhart or Eleanor Roosevelt?

This year, I have no Congress to send my communications to, so I decided to make a photo album that I could keep until we have a government again.  Then I persuaded my friends at work to join in with me, and I am grateful that most of them said yes and even patiently listened to my history rant as I explained my reasoning.  During my breaks and lunch, I made up some posters, and then we snapped quick pictures on my phone.  (I'll have to post high-res pictures of the posters later so they can be read! We were laughing too hard during some of the shots.)

Why we don't like Columbus:

 Columbus Was a Gold Digger

 Columbus Hates Babies

 Columbus Ousted Pluto

Columbus Cancelled ACL

He got all the credit, when it really belongs to this guy:

(If you've never heard of Eratosthenes, I recommend starting by reading this blog: Yay, Science!)

And thanks to The Oatmeal, I was inspired to end the tradition of protesting Columbus Day by celebrating a wonderful man forgotten by history and never talked about in schools:  Bartolomé de Las Casas.  Celebrating was easy, and it involved a lot of hugs and laughing.  Each picture got a little crazier, but it all went along with the spirit of loving others and adding a little more light in a dark place.

It turns out even scientists know how to celebrate.  I'm sure our representatives will enjoy the photos once they decide to become our government again.

In the meantime, my final thought on why I despise misconceptions so much:  Children should never learn lies or a glossed over and glamorous "truth."  It would be a gross understatement to say simply that lies are wrong, but that's still an important point.  We all deserve to know what really happened in history, or we aren't really learning.  History will protect the future from repeating the same mistakes.  And who knows?  Maybe if generations of American children had learned some of the atrocities that led to the founding of our country, we could be farther along as a people and not even having to deal with fighting for rights and freedoms anymore.  It's just a thought.

Happy Bartolomé Day, everyone!

Of Monsters and Vegetables

A couple of years ago, I grew a narwhal in my stomach.  It wasn't the nice, gentle unicorn of the sea that we're all accustomed to, but rather a monster with the teeth of an angler fish, raptor claws, a body covered in cactus spines, and a spiked tail like a stegosaurus.  That is to say, it hurts.  After many disappointing trips to doctors and specialists, some of whom decided I was crazy, I chose to call this narwhal Firemonster just to give it a name.  Then I decided I was going to have to go to medical school if I wanted an answer.

I've since stumbled upon another possible solution, as I seem to be too lazy (and poor) to go to medical school at present.  I'm going to try the Whole 30 program.  If you've never heard of it, Google it and be sad for me.  (Or if you're too lazy for Google, just know I can't eat the foods that are worth eating for at least 30 days.  And, no alcohol.)  Perhaps I'm starting off a little pessimistic, but I don't believe this will turn into a permanent lifestyle.  It's really just an informative tool so that I can learn if something I'm eating is feeding the Firemonster and making me miserable.

There are a few things about the next 30 days that worry me a lot.  First of all, I'm a baker.  This means that I love sugar, and I love only going to about three different aisles in the grocery store.  I'm rubbish at making lists or planning things out, so the idea of having to plan all of the meals has me stressed to begin with.  I even did a practice run at the store and ended up wandering every aisle in frustration, wondering how real adults do this all the time.  Also, I seem to have forgotten what pineapples look like.

Yep, I'm screwed.

This is the part where I come running out of my apartment, waving my fingers in the air, and yelling, "I am not a cook!"  My baking skills are pretty top notch, and I would hope that they could be translated to other areas of the kitchen.  I intend to channel the culinary badassery of Julia Child, but in reality, I'll probably end up more like the Swedish Chef, flinging food and utensils around while muttering incomprehensibly.  

Hey kids, it's time for tangential storytelling!  Speaking of the Swedish Chef, I have to put the blame on him for my childhood disgust of vegetables.  Have you ever seen Muppet vegetables?  They look horrified, and who can blame them?  They were always about to be murdered.  My parents thought I was picky, but I was just in mourning.  Somehow, I hadn't yet associated meat with anything cuddly, and seeing a cow or chicken wandering around outside didn't jam that image into my brain like seeing a tomato with a face etched into a permanent scream.  If Toddler Me had the vocabulary and access to Wikipedia to know what a fruitarian was, she would have been totally into it.  

"Mom!  Someone killed the carrots!"

So here's my tip for all you parents out there:  stop anthropomorphizing food.  Bananas in pajamas aren't cute; they're incredibly creepy.  If you're having a difficult time getting your little one to eat their veggies at dinnertime, keep in mind that they could be grieving.  Only yesterday they learned how much Larry the Cucumber loves his lips, and now he's dead.  Yeah, that's not traumatizing at all. 

And now back to my original point.  I've been reading about the "carb flu" associated with giving up all of these foods.  Some people have horrible headaches, while others become very irritable and snap at the smallest provocation.  (I apologize in advance if I call your mother a hamster or throw an avocado at your face because it happens to be the only projectile I have within reach.  It's like the anti-Twinkie defense.)  Some people report having cravings so intense that they dream of them or even hallucinate eating forbidden foods.  Then they actually believe they have eaten it and feel guilty for breaking the rules.  Maybe if I take an Ambien, I can sleepwalk to the nearest 7-11 and hallucinate my way through a pint of Ben & Jerry's AND a winning Powerball!

All of the foods I have to give up are foods that I love in ways I can't even begin to describe.  I'm afraid that I can't even make it for 30 days without sugar or dairy or grains, and I'm wondering if it sounds even the least bit petty that I may consider life no longer with living if I discover an allergy to any one of those things.  With many friends and family taking out bets against me, I'm terrified that I'm going to fail at any moment, and I'll be found face down in a gallon of ice cream.  Or maybe I'll just completely lose it, and I'll be kicked out of HEB for causing a scene when someone complains about me for lovingly stroking all the wheels of Brie while bitter tears run down my cheeks, and the stock boy will try to pry the cheese from my fingers as I scream, "Why, God, why?" at the top of my lungs.   

I guess if this doesn't pan out, I can still go to medical school.

That Time I Solved America's Problems in My Sleep

Last night, I had a dream about the future of America.  As dismal as that may sound, it actually turned out to be full of hope for the "someday" we might come to see as a people.  No, the dream wasn't as insightful or awe-inspiring as a certain dream of one Martin Luther King, Jr.  The man was unquestionably more enlightened than I will ever be.

He was also more black, which makes me sad.  I always thought I could have been a heck of a lot cooler if I were, too.  In fact, I remember back in kindergarten when we all had "share time" on the Alphabet Circle in the classroom.  I constantly had to fight a girl named Jessie to sit on the G, because I figured I had rights to it.  I tried to explain to the girl that Jessie doesn't even start with the letter G, so what the heck was she thinking, anyway?  It turns out that she didn't even know how to recognize letters or read at this point and just liked the shape, but I was never one to suffer fools gladly.  That G was mine, dangit.

For this particular share time, we were supposed to say what we wanted to be when we grew up.  Me?  I wanted to be valedictorian and a black Jewish Canadian.  (Imagine the phone call my parents got that day.)  While there's a story here, it's not the story I'm going to tell today.  I will say two things, though.  It's rather sad that I fell into the self-fulfilling prophecy of the child with a great potential and unattainable goals who would meet her greatest success in the glory days of high school.  There's a cliché I never wanted to become.  Also?  Even though I'm not really cool or the success everyone thought I should have been, at least I wasn't the girl next to me whose greatest ambition in life was to grow up to become a raccoon.  I guess both of our parents got to have awkward conversations with our teacher that day.

Thanks a lot, Captain Obvious.

I've done a lot of genealogical and genetic research to get a better idea of who I am and where I'm from, but sadly all of the records seem to indicate that I'm not even slightly black, Jewish, or Canadian.  That figures.

And now back to the original reason for this post, which probably nobody remembers because I'm a master at tangential storytelling.  The dream.  Right.

In the dream, I realized that the future of America hinged upon true change and scientific leadership.  (Believe me when I say that I'm not trying to be controversial or partisan at all, so just chill and go with it.)  I'm not talking about having a leader who is qualified to discuss reproductive rights or the future of NASA.  It was so much more than that.  It was clear in the dream that we were going to need to understand how to maintain our resources and make enormous changes in order to ensure our own survival.  We also needed to be led by a group of men and women who understood the gritty details of scientific ventures because, undoubtedly, the more advances that can be made in science and technology, the more ethical questions will arise and need to be discussed and debated for the benefit of all.

The drawback to this realization is that scholarly people don't always make the best leaders.  We are the socially awkward ones who seem to be lost in a world made up of our own thoughts.  We like to read and work out puzzles, and we wonder how to explain to our parents that we want to name our next dog Quark or how to correct our teachers when they tell us that Benjamin Franklin held onto a kite as it was struck by lightning or that diamonds are made from lumps of coal.  (Sheesh, people!)  And when we do get really excited about discoveries we've made, we find that sharing it with other people is difficult due to their lack of interest or comprehension.  It's depressing, really.

But this is where the "future" part of the dream really happened.  There already is a person who meets all of those qualifications but isn't really socially awkward or hard to understand.  In fact, this person has already earned the respect and adoration of millions of Americans.  Consider the following:   Bill Nye for President, 2016.  Think about it.  Here's a man who only wants to see people learn and to better the world in which we live.  He has always been compassionate for others.  I could see him solving the world's clean water problem while giving us a simplified example of two cups with a sock laid over them to show us how it works.  

Okay, maybe he is awkward, but only in an adorable, 11th Doctor sort of way.

Thanks to my insomnia, I always have the opportunity to think about things.  So, at about 2:30 this morning, I determined that Neil deGrasse Tyson would make an excellent running mate for our dear science guy.  (That's right, Neil, I still love you, even after the whole Pluto fiasco.  We all make mistakes, man.)  

While I can't commend this idea enough, I realize it may be just a pipe dream.  But think about how cool it would be if everyone read this and decided, "Hey, that sounds good.  Maybe we should try it."  And maybe Bill Nye would be on board, too.  Who wouldn't want to at least attempt to save the world while wearing a fabulous bow tie?  (If you read this, Bill, I majored in science and strive to remember that everyone I meet knows something I don't know yet, and it's all because of you.  Also, I would like to be best friends and/or your time-traveling companion.  You know, if you don't have any better offers.)

It could totally happen.

For those of you who were waiting for a weigh-in from my dad, of course I told him about the dream.  Here you go.

Me:  Just think about all the problems I could solve if I actually slept through a whole night!

Dad:  So, your insomnia is what's keeping you from solving the world's problems?

Me:  Exactly.

Dad:  What you're saying is, the NSA has figured out a way to make you have insomnia so that you don't discover how to save the bees or how to destroy Monsanto and GMOs or all of our other big issues?

Me:  Well, I was thinking of something akin to how God invented whiskey to keep the Irish from ruling the world, but it's the same concept.  

Dad:  Hey, don't go dissing whiskey.  A lot of good things have happened because of that.  Maybe you should go take a nap.