Agnes Moorehead: Unsung Feminist Icon

Like just about everyone, I first experienced Agnes Moorehead because of her role as Endora on Bewitched. In fact, her name was one of the first I ever knew because it was permanently etched in a cloud of smoke in my memory: Agnes Moorehead as Endora. Who could forget that? It's been said that she grumbled quite a bit about the series and didn't want to be known just as Endora, considering the fact that she had quite an accomplished career in film, stage, and radio. However, it is because of this role that she became a household name and has continued to be well known for decades, arguably even better known than some of the leading ladies she supported in her film roles.

I was lucky to grow up in a classic film household, so I quickly learned of Agnes's roles in Citizen Kane, The Magnificent Ambersons, and the Twilight Zone. One day I stumbled upon my grandmother's collection of classic radio shows on cassette, and I fell in love with the Mercury Theatre productions. (Go find Dracula and listen to it right now. Do it! I'll wait.)

A few months ago, I happened to catch a re-run of Bewitched, and something about it made me want to know all there was to know about Agnes. I found myself looking for books and interviews and trying to find any way I could to watch movies and shows I'd never seen. (Thanks to TCM and a good friend with a DVR, I'll be able to watch four new-to-me movies on Tuesday.) Somehow I stumbled upon a blog (In the Good Old Days of Classic Hollywood) that mentioned a blogathon for Agnes's birthday, and I decided I should come out of blog retirement to add my own thoughts.  Please head over to see the other posts on Agnes. 

While deciding on a topic, I was still searching for all the Agnes videos to be found on YouTube, and I came upon the episode of Wild Wild West on which she guest starred, called The Night of the Vicious Valentine.  In this episode, Agnes plays a woman named Emma Valentine who has used nefarious plans to kill off the wealthiest men in America. President Grant is concerned because these few men hold enough of America's wealth that their deaths will be a detriment to the economy (bonus 1967 mention of the 1%). When our good guy James West catches up with Emma Valentine, she explains to him that she wants to control Congress and ultimately make America a temporary monarchy, with herself as Queen Emma the First, and then she will slowly reintegrate the country back into a democracy once women have been given complete independence and happiness. And thus my topic landed right into my lap: Agnes Moorehead the Unsung Feminist Icon. (Anyone who knows me will testify that I am not a violent person, nor do I believe violence will fix any of our problems, but I do have to admit a temporary female monarchy to ensure female independence sounds like a good idea after certain events of the past year!)

Yes, James West is being held down by mechanical lady arms.

I do have to mention that this show is incredibly hokey and predictable, and it comes as no surprise that Emma tells West and Gordon of all of her plans, step by step, and then they use their futuristic gadgets to foil them. While entertaining and funny, it certainly isn't the greatest role that Agnes ever played.  Interestingly enough, though, she did win an Emmy for this role. According to IMDB, she was nominated six times for Endora and never won.

via GIPHY

A second and much more important guest role for Agnes was that of Professor Amelia Webster on a show called Channing. The episode was titled Freedom is a Lovesome Thing God Wot, and if that's not enough to tell you just how erudite and high brow this show was, I don't know what else will. Perhaps this show was a tad too erudite for the times, as it only lasted one season. You can also find this episode on YouTube, and I highly recommend it. In this story, Professors Webster and Cooke (played by James Earl Jones) are in a fight over the future of a pupil. Professor Cooke is the first person of color to teach at this university, and the pupil in question is also an African American. It seems that Professor Cooke is so bitter and biased that he has become bigoted in his own way. (Remember that this was filmed in 1964, and it becomes much more intense.)

Agnes's character is a math professor, and being an intelligent woman with a career means that she must be a spinster. This role could have easily fallen into a trope of two-dimensional, bitter and smart single woman, but the way Agnes played it brought out a lot of depth and many layers of meaning. Professor Webster tries to show Professor Cooke the folly of his ways, and she reminds him that while her struggles are different, being a female academic comes with its own set of problems that she has had to work hard to overcome. She encourages him to use these struggles and problems for the good of others, rather than allowing himself to wallow in anger and bitterness and hold others back. It's a very powerful and moving episode. There was comic relief for me seeing Agnes throw back straight bourbon and several beers and use her math skills to win several games of pool, but the best moment by far was when she told the concerned (nosy) librarian, "Spinsterhood isn't a tragedy, Ruth. It's just a kind of requiem between great books." This is now my life's motto, in case anyone was wondering.

Many of Agnes's film roles were subtly feminist, too. She often played a spinster aunt or maid type of role. Maybe it was typecasting, but it's just another way the inconvenient, unmarried woman came to center stage. These were women who did not fall into the accepted societal norms of quietly marrying and raising a family. Although her characters usually don't have a lot of back story, in Agnes's four Academy Award nominated performances, she was unmarried and had no children. All four of these women were strong and independent in their own way, and while I'm not going to focus on these roles (because each would need its own post), I do recommend that you look them up. (The four films are The Magnificent Ambersons, Mrs. Parkington, Johnny Belinda, and Hush...Hush, Sweet Charlotte.)

Agnes as Aunt Fanny in the Magnificent Ambersons, one of her greatest roles

I think it can also be argued that Endora was a feminist role. The entire show of Bewitched was an allegory for the feminist movement, or gay rights, or just the power of the underdog in general. Witches were so much more advanced and free-thinking, and mortals were, well, mortals. Every episode centered around a powerful woman and her husband's struggle to accept that she was a lot more powerful than he was. Discord happened when he pushed too hard, telling his wife to hide who she was, and she refused. Endora's character seemed to be very worried about her daughter, always thinking that Samantha married down. How could she go from a society who let her be free and do anything she pleased to one where she was chained to the kitchen and the vacuum? But Endora need not have worried, because Samantha was going to be who she was and do what she wanted, anyway, and that's what true feminism is all about.

What we know of Agnes's personal life is that she was a contradiction and an enigma. She didn't want people to know who she really was because she preferred that we loved her for her work, love the fantasy and the illusion rather than be disappointed by the reality. There are some facts out there, and even more rumors, but I think it can be said that Agnes bucked tradition in her own life, as well as in her chosen roles. She earned a Masters degree well before that was commonplace for women, and she was well established in her teaching career before becoming an actress. However her life may have turned out, she was well prepared to be an independent and self-reliant woman. She married later in life, well past her college years, and she never had any children. Even with the many pitfalls or dramatic events of her own life, she was able to overcome and have a very successful career in every entertainment medium, something that very few people can say. She was obviously very talented and intelligent. Personally, I would like to believe that Endora was just Agnes turned up to 11 with a little extra makeup thrown on for good measure.

Here's to Agnes Moorehead on her 116th birthday!

Bewitched Endora GIF from Bewitched GIFs

Help Me Help You

I have a problem.  You see, people are often coming to me for advice that I am very unqualified to give.  I am very empathetic, so others often come to me with their problems.  I then listen to them and sometimes worry myself into anemia.  (Just kidding - I was already anemic.)  As a child, I was very affected by movies, even if they weren't real.

This is an example of a conversation that took place several times throughout my childhood, and probably at least once last month:
"What's wrong, G?"
"Stomach hurts."
"But why?"
"Dorothy's not in Kansas, and her aunt and uncle have lost their house.  I don't know what they're going to do."

Dramatic Reenactment of Me as a Child

Now, I have to ignore the news and try to be selective about which problems I tackle on a daily basis.  The real problem is that my brain doesn't want to help me with this.  My brain has spent years building up information it thinks would be useful so that I can share this information with others who need my help. There are many folders stored in my brain, full of song lyrics, movie quotes, scientific studies, passages from books, things I assumed to be true as a child.... (Actually, this folder is quite full of things, like how I assumed people prayed to Granite Jesus, that God's first name was Andy, and that the opposite of broad daylight was narrow nightdark.)

It's rare that any of the information is actually useful to a real-life problem, but my brain lies in wait, anyway, ready to hand out bad advice like Halloween candy.  My brain has started operating on a keyword search system, where it goes through the files based on what someone has asked.  Unfortunately, the most relevant answer is not usually the one that comes out first.  So a conversation begins, and I blurt out something someone has never even heard of that is also most unhelpful.  I may even switch search terms in the middle, trying to find some comment to apply to the situation, but eventually I just bring the words out more slowly, using up the last bit of hope I have that I could ever be understood by humans.

Friend:  I mean, I'm not ready to date again.  I don't even think I would know what to do.  How does one even win a girl's heart anymore?
Brain: Search query - win + heart + girl
Me:  The Bard of Stratford on Avon!
Friend:  What?
Me:  Uh...Brush up your Shakespeare, and the women you will wow.
Friend:  I don't know what you're even talking about.
Me:  Odds...bodkins?
Friend:  I really don't see how this is going to help with my problem.
Brain:  Search query - dating + problem
Me:  If you've a date in Constantinople, she'll be waiting in Instanbul.
Friend: *slowly backing away*
Me:  Oh, bugger.

Because this happens frequently, I feel like I should set some ground rules so that I can keep a few friends.

1.  Don't ever ask me for advice.
2.  If you do ask for advice, please use any advice given for entertainment purposes, only.
Exception:  If you are on fire and ask for advice, you should probably Stop, Drop, and Roll when I yell it out to you.  That is genuinely helpful advice that I feel qualified to hand out.

In fact, I feel like I've been over-prepared for Stop Drop and Roll for a long time (not that I would ever wish for anyone to be on fire, and especially not in my presence).  As a child, I remember going over the words many times in school, as if the adults in charge were afraid that we would stumble upon some man on fire in the street, and we would yell out, "Stop, Collaborate, and Listen!  Oh wait!  No....that's not it.  Hold on - I'll remember it in a minute!"

For those of you wondering, I was that kid who pointed out that Sparky was wearing a flame-retardant suit, which gave him a pretty unfair advantage.

I realize that it was important information for children to know and be able to recall, but to an anxious child like myself, each time we repeated the lesson I felt like seeing people on fire was going to be a normal part of adult life.  The truth of the matter is, it's probably the most useful bit of information I can think to yell out in any given instant, and yet, I've not had to say it even one time in all my life.  That figures.

So from now on, whenever people ask me for advice and I find myself unable to relate to them in words that make any sense, I'll probably just end it all with Stop, Drop, and Roll.  It may not be relevant, but at least it will be useful.

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.

Knee Deep

So, my knee clicks.  That's the word written on the medical report.  In reality, it's like a sharp snap that pulls my kneecap out and a bit to the right.  It happens every time I straighten or bend my knee, which is a lot.  Every once in a while, it locks and sends an intense jolt of pain through my leg that takes my breath away.  It's especially great when this happens while I'm sleeping.  The best part is that it's obvious and noticeable.  What I mean is, you can touch my leg and feel it happen, and if it's quiet enough, you can even hear it.  So, what the heck?  After having half a dozen or so medical professionals play around with my leg, I might as well let everyone else in on the weirdness, too.

To figure out what exactly was going on in there, I got to see an orthopedic surgeon and then get an MRI.  This doctor specializes in knees, particularly the left one.  (Had I known back in pre-med that I could have established a career as the "Left Ear Lobe Specialist," I might have stuck it out.)  The surgeon moved my knee around every which way, looked up at me, and said, "Well, you've got a neat party trick here."  Party trick.  Really.  I mean, I'm about as socially awkward as a person can be, but even I know that busting this thing out at a shindig is no way to get down.

After my MRI (see previous post), I knew what to expect from the doctor and waited for the explanation of all that was to come.  Unsurprisingly, he started out by asking me how my "party trick" was doing.

Me:  Well, it's actually a lot cooler than I knew.
Doctor:  How so?
Me:  You know how some people have joints that predict weather patterns?  Like, 'My elbow aches, so it's definitely going to snow today.'
Doctor:  Yeah, I guess...
Me:  Well, my knee can tell you where Jimmy Hoffa is, which is a hell of party trick if you ask me.  Who needs to know the weather in Austin?  Hot.  Every day.  I'd say the location of a notorious criminal is much more relevant.

Sadly, Hoffa's fat pad edema is in fact named after some boring doctor who isn't even related to Jimmy Hoffa (allegedly).  It's much the same as the Baker's Cyst, which has nothing to do with baking, even though that would have made total sense to me because I spend most of my free time doing stuff like this:

So, that was two major let-downs on the knee injury.  He asked if I had any other questions before he went into detail about my options.  Of course I did.

Me:  Well, the PA said that I have extra high-riding kneecaps and extended mobility.  Is that like a super power or something?  Like, maybe I can end world hunger with the extra knee work?
Doctor:  Um...well...it's not really a good thing.  I mean, it's not...the worst thing.  It's just not what we typically see in the average patient.
Me:  So what are you saying?  I belong in a freak show?  "Come see the girl with High-Riding Kneecaps! She's not normal!"
Doctor:  Okay, well, I wouldn't go that far.  It's just that there's a range of normal, and you're at the very high end of normal or perhaps even the low end of abnormal.
Me:  I don't believe anyone has ever described me so aptly in one sentence before.

Abby Normal.  I'm almost sure that was the name.

As we went over the options, he discussed the pros and cons of each choice.  Basically, the bottom line is that this clicking and aching is going to stay with me for the rest of my life, and there isn't really any good procedure for a permanent cure.  The doctor noted my frustration and said, "Hey, it isn't cancer, and you aren't going to die from it."  Well, those were two outcomes I never worried about.  Thanks for making me feel like a jerk for complaining.  I know it isn't cancer.  It isn't a lot of things, like starvation, or EF-5 tornadoes, or even the Zombie Apocalypse, but it is my knee.  And it is also quite unpleasant.

So I now have a non-life-threatening, "it's not cancer," snap crackle pop in my knee, and it can't even tell you where Jimmy Hoffa is.  This is the worst party trick EVER.  Thanks a lot, Suburban, thou lump of foul deformity!

That Time My Knee Solved a Mystery

This week, the orthopedic surgeon's office called to tell me the results of my knee MRI had come in, and I needed to be seen as soon as possible.  I explained to the woman that my dog was having an emergency surgery and everything was kind of up in the air, so I had no idea when I'd be able to make the appointment.  Instead of the understanding reply I expected, the extremely huffy response I received was something along the lines of, "Well, I guess I can tell the doctor that, but you still have to come in if you want to get your results.  This is very serious."

I wanted to tell her that I was so overwhelmed I hadn't been very good at doing anything useful in the last week, including things like sleeping or eating regularly.  What I have been good at is crying, worrying, feeling insanely guilty, and cleaning obsessively.  (Obsessive cleaning means nit-picking my way through cabinets and drawers, item by item, for hours, when dishes may be left un-washed next to the sink.  It's less useful and more of a cleaning obfuscation.)  I couldn't explain any of this, though, because I knew she didn't have any compassion and because I was so far past my stress threshold that I was afraid anything I said would come out in a strangled half-sob, half-maniacal guffaw worthy of a Batman villain.

Actually, now that I think about it, if Ben Affleck can play Batman, I think I could make a pretty good villain.  So if any big, important movie casting directors are reading this, have your people contact my people.  I'd make a pretty good PenGwyn, seeing as I can bring my own personal flair to the name.  But, I probably can't be Catwoman because I'm allergic to cats.  Bummer, right?  Well, I'm sure we could still work something out.

And now, back to my point.

The next day, I got another phone call from the same woman.  She started out with, "Okay, so the doctor said I can read the report to you, but you're going to have to make an appointment if you want it explained."  Okay.  I get it.  I need to make an appointment. 

As soon as she said there were four points on the report, I knew I was going to have to write it all down.  This may seem less than helpful until you recall that Google's most important feature is allowing all of us to ensure we are actually dying of the worst possible diseases before we even step foot into a doctor's office.  Your knee hurts because of a car wreck?  Actually, no.  You have cancer AND ebola.  That's some pretty crap luck. (Obviously, I had a fun evening planned.)

To be extra considerate, the woman on the phone was spelling certain words for me to be sure I got them all down correctly, except I began to notice that she was spelling out normal words like l-a-t-e-r-a-l and skipping the medical terms, as if she thought I was some kind of idiot savant.  So you're going to spell out joint, but you're leaving popliteal up to me?  Gee.  Thanks.

And then she got to the part I couldn't understand at all.

Lady:  Number four is *mumbles* fat pad edema....
Me:  I didn't catch that word in front of fat pad.  Did you say Hoss, like Bonanza?
Lady:  No, *mumbles*
Me:  Okay, can we spell it out?  Hostas?
Lady:  Not essssessss, effffffs.
Me:  Oh, so Hoffa's fat pad?
Lady:  Yes.
Me:  I didn't know my knee had a fat pad.
Lady:  Well, I don't know what it means, either, so you're going to have to see the doctor.
Me:  It would be nice to know the hows and whys of the gangster's abode in my knee.  Who would have thought Jimmy Hoffa was in there all this time?
Lady:  That's why you're going to have to come in.

Clearly, she was done listening to me at that point.

And then I got some messages from my dad.

Dad:  What did the doctor's office say?
Me:  Well, there was some stuff about MCLs and cysts and unimportant stuff like that.  Oh, and I have a phat pad in my knee, and Jimmy Hoffa lives there.
Dad:  In other words, you didn't understand what they told you.
Me:  No, I wrote it all down.  Hoffa's fat pad edema.  I think it makes perfect sense.  Edema means swelling.  If you had a supposed-dead teamster hiding out in your fat pad, it would be swollen.  See?  I don't even need a doctor.  What I need is the FBI.
Dad:  Or maybe some sleep...?

I guess my dad could be right, but whenever I do get to go to the doctor, it would be nice if they could explain how a mob boss got into a fat pad when he died more than a decade before I was born.  Maybe Jimmy Hoffa is a Time Lord.

Hold on to Your Potatoes!

Paper is a hot commodity at my house.  It just doesn't exist.  Well, of course, there are books.  I have books on every wall, on the floor, in my bed, on every horizontal surface... If I could stack books on the ceiling just to fit more of them in, I would.  But writing paper is so scarce that any time I chance upon a notebook, it's like finding the lost city of El Dorado.  

Except, I seem to have some sort of dementia when it comes to notebooks.  They're all filled up, by me, but I have no memory of the things I've written.  I'm talking NO memory.  Like, there are plenty of inside jokes that I don't even understand, and they were *my* jokes.

I'm the girl who hates lists and couldn't write one to save my own life (or make grocery shopping easier), yet I have scores of notebooks filled with lists and words and doodles I don't even remember making.  And, they're all ridiculous.  Things I Would Teach a Parrot to Say, Inappropriate Songs to Sing at My Funeral, numerous bucket lists, books to read, old words that should make a comeback, the countries of the world in alphabetical order....and it goes on and on.  (People who have sat next to me at meetings sometimes must have wondered why I have Azerbaijan in my notes, because they must have missed something.)

Today I found a notebook I don't even remember seeing, let alone writing in, but I found a list of things I should do with my life.  At the top of the list, I wrote "Know All the Things!"  and then crossed it out and wrote, "Damnit, Google." next to it.  At the bottom of the page was a list of pros and cons for becoming an archaeologist.

In case it's too hard to read, the pros say *My name is already Jones *I could find a good man, and *I hate Nazis.  The cons are *I don't have enough Asian friends *Maybe he wouldn't be a Time Lord, and *Sometimes it is snakes.  Apparently I decided the cons outweighed the pros in this case.

My favorite part is the fact that I believed having a kid that looks like Data from the Goonies follow me around yelling "Doctah Jones!" was more of a pro than finding Biblical artifacts.  

Okay, so it is a pretty good pro.

If the Shoe Fits...

I was at what was to be my last appointment at the chiropractor when a woman walked in who commanded all the attention in the room.  Her heels clacked on the hard floor, and she talked on her cell phone, loudly, about what a horrible day she'd had.  And even though she was late for her appointment, she would go before me.

When she sat down, I snapped a quick picture at her unbelievable shoes.

Her shoes weren't the only unbelievable part of her get-up, though.  She was wearing an outfit of clothes that were a couple of sizes too small so as to accentuate her features.  I have to give it to her - the overall effect on her was much better than it would have been on me.  If I wore clothes like that, it would be less "Hey, look at my curves!" and more "Hey, it's the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man!"  But I digress.

She went into her room, and the chiropractor attempted to tell her that she had significant spine and hip rotations that would need to be worked on.  And then he mentioned the shoes.

Doctor:  I'm not saying the shoes caused all of the problems, but they will add to it. 

Lady:  Yeah, but, my feet don't hurt.

This was the part where I wished he would have broken into a rendition of Dem Bones so that she could understand how her foot bone eventually connected to her hip bone and made it unhappy somehow.  Every sentence she said from that point on started with "Yeah, but..." and got louder and louder as she tried to defend her shoes and her lifestyle.

The rest of us just sat and waited, getting to hear it all.  As the door opened, the conversation had not ended.  Maybe I was feeling brave because this was my last appointment to see the chiropractor or any of these people, or maybe my eye-rolling muscles were feeling tired and over-worked. 

Doctor:  Whenever you wear heels, your body is tilted forward.  In heels this high, you walk like...

Me:  A Tyrannosaurus Rex.

Doctor:  I was going to say you walk like you're tilted on a ski slope.  All of your muscles are tight and eventually going to be damaged beyond repair.  Walking like a dinosaur isn't far off.

The girl shot me a prissy, murderous look, but I didn't care.  Everyone in the room felt the same way about her.  I just wanted to have my appointment and then go home forever.  I wouldn't be back, so I wouldn't have to worry about seeing anyone here again.  

But then...after my appointment, the doctor said he needed to see me again next week.  That figures.

Oops.