Will all the turkeys please stand up...

and leave the room...quickly...before anyone remembers what we do to turkeys at this time of year.

It has been a long time since I've put fingers to keyboard for the purpose of blogging. I'd like to find a suitable excuse for this lapse, but I put them away somewhere safe (in case I needed one) and now I can't find them. So here's my lame excuse. Is that like a lame duck president? And who made up that term? How many of you have observed ducks with limps anyway? Who can tell if a duck is really limping since they walk so funny to begin with? My excuse for not blogging for quite some time is that I didn't have any extra...time that is.

I finally landed a job (like landing a lame duck?) and started working full-time. This has put a real crimp in my down time activities such as napping, snoozing, lolly-gagging, drooling while dropping off to sleep, staring out the window, staring at fuzz on the carpet, staring at my invisible friends (and Wilbur) because they won't join in the conversations I have with myself. Now I have to get up early, get ready for work and act human most of the day. What fun is that I ask you? Answer: not a lot. However, the up side is that I can pay my rent, buy food, pay other bills and have some left over for gifts at this jolly time of year. So, other than missing all my free time and sleeping in a lot, I guess I am pretty happy to have something to do that is productive (and, no, drooling isn't productive unless you're licking a lot of ancient postage stamps or envelopes).

I promise that I probably won't wait so long to blog again, but, then I now work for the Federal Government, so you know how much my promises are worth...penny for your thoughts!

Where does the time go?

It probably goes to the same place as all my memories, and I'm not sure where that is, which is why I can't find some of my memories either....

It's been a busy couple of weeks--for campaigning politcos and me. I didn't get elected (and neither did at least half of those running for office), but, although I was running, it wasn't for public office. I was just doing my usual running around to get things done and then collapsing at the end of the day.

My sister and I moved our Mom here to Kentucky in mid-October and much of our time the past few weeks has been taking care of her needs, setting up her apartment, etc. That is beginning to slow to a trickle of tasks. She has all her furniture, all the items that were shipped are unpacked and put away and she's beginning to get into the schedule at her new place. Meanwhile, I have finally found some employment--it's tough out there for anyone seeking a job--and I start training tomorrow for two days and then the real work will begin in earnest in about two weeks. I'm taking advantage of my last full day of "freedom" (also known as unemployment) to clean house (now isn't that a clever use of time), work on some art projects and get a leaky tire fixed (see, I do know how to have fun).

I still haven't figured out where all the time goes each day (kind of like trying to understand where all the money in my checking account goes), but I'm okay with that as long as I can still remember mostly what I've done and where I've been. When the "mostly" turns to "rarely", then I'll be concerned. Although, by that point, I guess I won't care because I won't be able to remember enough to be concerned...or care. Now what was it I was supposed to do after I finished bloggering? Hmmmm.

Fly me to the moon...

No, wait, don't! My sister and I just returned from a very short, long trip. We flew from Kentucky to California, spent four days packing up our Mom's stuff (and throwing or giving away lots and lots and lots and lots and...well, you get it), and we just returned late last night. Mom is moved in to her new assisted living facility, but her state of confusion is pretty dang high right now and that doesn't help my state of confusion, which always seems to be on "orange alert".

I have been remiss in not writing on my blog for quite some time--not that anyone out there is clammoring for me to "Write more, please!", but I do miss my cathartic exercise in verbiosity. For the next few days I will be straightening out my Mom's finances, finishing what is necessary to get her everything she needs for her new place--some of the "lots of stuff" shouldn't have been pitched, but what the hey!--and working on an editing job I have with a group in Singapore. I think life will return to normal in the next week or so, but I won't be returning with it. I like being weird and a little left of "regular"--hey, does that make me high octane or in need of a prune? Anyhoo, I will bid all my faithful readers good night and I'll move on to my Excel spreadsheet and the fun and joy of financial wizardry.

American political scene

It's a scene all right. An accidental scene and I'm not sure there are any survivors.

I haven't been able to bring myself to watch the presidential and vice-presidential debates. I had a choice among 1) hitting myself in the head with a club full of pointy objects, 2) poking myself in the eye with a sharp pencil, 3) banging my head on the wall 12 times in succession, or 4) watching the debates. I determined that #4 was the most paintful, and I didn't like the other three very much either, so I read a book or watched HGTV (still my favorite channel). I knew I wouldn't get anything substantive out of watching the debates, unless you consider massive indigestion substantive, and I was low on Tums, which was one of the deciding factors. Well, that and the thought that TV programs should be fun to watch, entertaining, enlightening, uplifting, or informative, which the debates are not. I'll wait for the Economist magazine's edition in late October, where I know I'll be able to read an objective dissection of what each candidate really believes, has done or plans to do. Meanwhile, I'm declaring myself to be a "plaid" voter--a little red, a little blue. That's in honor of my Scottish ancestry...

November 4th may be the last day we have to endure campaign ads, but I have a terrible feeling that we will hear analysis of the race, the tactics, the results for a very long time. Who elected the media anyhoo? I think we need a referendum on the next ballot that limits political "after-thoughts" by any person involved with the print, video or audio sectors of the media. We could limit all analysis and commentaries by the media to mimes. Silence is golden....

odd names...and pastimes

People say they have a "pet peeve". What I want to know is what is a "peeve"? I've checked all the local pet stores and no one seems to have such an animal, mineral or vegetable.

Is trying to find a pet peeve kind of like a snipe hunt, where unsuspecting "first-time" campers are sent out into the woods, late at night to find a snipe to capture with only a bag and a skimpy flash light? Of course, all the campers are in on the joke except for the "new kids on the block", who want so badly to be initiated into the seasoned campers' club. Almost everyone who has ever gone to camp has earnestly sought the elusive snipe. And decidedly everyone has never caught one. What newbies do catch is 1) a cold from being out on a damp night, 2) "on" as is finally figuring out that they've been had by the twisted and mean upper classmen of camping, or 3) heck from the adult camp staff, who have forgotten what it was like to be a kid, dragging a gunny sack along, calling out "Here snipe, here snipe" somewhere in the middle of the woods. Even normally kind children, who make it through a snipe hunt, are willing to subject new camp attendees to this little initiation rite of passage.

By the time we're grown ups, we probably won't fall for snipe hunts, so we invent adult versions of them. One of these mythical adventures is called searching for the perfect job--one that has minimal hours, maximum pay, no boss, more holidays than Hallmark has cards, two-hour lunches, five breaks a day, Christmas bonuses larger than the GNP of most countries, 12 weeks of vacation (paid--not only the days off but all expenses incurred on said vacations), as many personal days as you want and need in order to deal with personal issues such as hang nails, chipped nail polish, a run in your panty hose (or hair socks if you're one of those Ralph Lauren/no sock kind of guys), waking up to find that you just don't feel like working, etc. I've been searching for the past two months, and all I've been able to find is dust bunnies under my bed, the missing cap from my toothpaste tube, the hiding place for my extra set of car keys--see how good my hiding place was; it took me two months to find them. Maybe there's a job for hiding things. I would definitely qualify if there were.

Meanwhile, my search for a pet peeve continues. If anyone out there knows where I can find one, please call me. Meanwhile, I will continue to look for the perfect job. I'm not sure I will be able to let you know if I find one, because I'll probably be on vacation or taking a personal day or holiday or a break or a long lunch, so I'll be out of touch. Hey! Maybe I am qualified for the perfect job. Everyone in my family tells me I'm out of touch....

Let's play, "I win...you lose!"

Isn't that what the banking and financial institutions have been doing as of late? And guess what, lots of people have lost and will continue to lose. This is not warm and fuzzy news. I guess if we want that kind of news, we'll have to go to a pet store and buy some.

Meanwhile, is anybody out there in charge? Is anybody out there willing to raise a hand and say "I'm responsible for some of this mess"? Is anybody out there taking the long view when planning business ventures, expansions, financial products and instruments and the possible fall-out and consequences if everything isn't right with the world? Did anyone, at any time when variable rate mortgages were introduced ever think this was only a good idea when rates when down and the people paying the "bill" were favored? Did anyone, at any point in time think that it was a good idea to assign variable rate mortgages to people trying to buy the American dream (a house) and being stretched to the max to do it, and that somehow "it would all work out"? Did anyone ever think about the fragility of the variable-rate mortgage market (and its customers) and the extreme results that would occur if interest rates were to move even a few percentage points north? When the real estate market started to soften in late 2005 and the banks and mortgage companies continued to hand out sub-prime and questionnable standard mortgages to individuals and the foreclosure numbers started to creep up, did anyone wonder what all the banks and mortgage companies were going to do with re-possessed houses? Sell them in a soft market for a lesser value than the mortgage being held--since most were almost 100% value mortgages? When the sub-prime collapse occurred, did any of the financial institutions holding mortgages or heavily invested in them wonder if maybe they would be better off keeping people in their houses, letting them pay a fixed mortgage rate thus averting a massive foreclosure situation, putting people out on the street, adding to the ever-growing real estate marketplace woes and their own financial instability--basically cutting their financial noses off to save their faces? Anyone who studies a mortgage agreement can see that the money made by the banks and mortgage companies over the life of a 30-year loan, even at a low, fixed rate, is a lucrative, profitable way to make money. By greedily demanding mortgage payments that had increased decidedly, if they were variable rates, the financial institutions struck a match as they held mortgagees feet to the fire. Unfortunately, for them, they held onto the match too long and were themselves burned. It's a little bit like the "Sorcerer's Apprentice" where the servant in the house gets lazy and likes things being done easily. He thinks of a brilliant idea about how to take care of business without so much effort, so he conjures up some magic and the broom brings buckets and buckets of water--taking care of what needs to be done, but the broom takes on a life of it's own and does not know when to stop and floods the whole house, doing great damage. There's no magic to sound financial principles and their effect. There's also nothing Mickey Mouse about applying them--they never go out of style or on an errand unchecked or unbidden.

And are any of the financial institution executives available to discuss what went wrong and how to prevent a recurrence, or are they too busy packing up their golden parachutes so they can bail out? While we're at it, let's give a big shout out to the SEC and other agencies that are supposed to be watching over the markets and the financial/banking institutions. Oh, and I'd like to ask the folks at AIG in particular how they all just figured out last Sunday (when they should have been in church praying fervently for forgiveness and guidance) that their company was about to do a big old belly flop!

All this pride and greed, arrogant thinking processes, no concern for the little guy (and this country is mostly made up of us little guys who go to work everyday, work hard, earn our pay, pay our taxes, have no hope of or need for a lavish salary or lifestyle and don't feel it is due us), failure to assess the future with simple analytical studies basic to any business school--best case/worst case scenarios, prone-to-believe-their-own-press, making no room at the table for the "older" generation (who lived within their means, without credit cards or loans for anything other than cars or houses, without Blackberries or iPods or iPhones and mostly without a lot of use for the word "I", and who lived through wars and depressions and very difficult times) have brought us to a very steep precipice which is fearsome. Now everyone is wondering why? How did we get here? A little study of the past 20 years will be enlightening and answer those questions. The point, beyond knowing how and why, is to ask what we can do--each of us--to clean up the mess (and it's a complicated mess), plan for a better, more measured future, (perhaps not as flamboyant and full of young Turks who want to make extreme salaries and receive bonuses that are more than the GNP in many Third World nations while proposing "creative" money-making schemes that will line the pockets of American financial institution and send a few coins their way, while they pick the pockets of the average citizen and risk losing their pants in the process). As much as we don't like the idea of our government stepping in and regulating the private sector, when the private sector behaves badly, arrogantly, without consideration for their behavior and in a cavalier and reckless manner, then someone has to be responsible for restoring order and preventing further destruction. If the private sector wants to remain so, it needs to develop some decorum, some manners, some civility, but most of all, it needs to govern itself in a responsible manner that takes into consideration everyone involved, not just the fat cats at the top. Isn't there just a little irony in the fact that the private sector doesn't want government interference...until it needs an $85 billion bail out? Yep. And when major corporations and financial institutions falter and fail, everyone is involved whether they had a say in how things were handled by these entities or not. At least, when the government steps in, we, the people have an opportunity to make our voices heard, become part of the process even if only in a small way. It isn't that I believe our government is run by geniuses at all levels, and we're in good hands like the Allstate ad claims, but it's better than closed meetings, closed minds and the closing of vital and important businesses in our nation.

Let's not play, "I win"...the stakes are too high.

My ink levels are low and other revelations...

I love computer prompts, those little windows that pop up while you're in the midst of a deep and complicated e-mail response to a friend or trying to navigate through cyberspace and it appears that you have overdosed on Dramamine. My all-time favorite (and I think many of you will agree) is Mr. Office Assistant Clip--that paper clipper who "bonks" on your screen from the inside and insists on helping you write your letter, your report, your whatever.

The first time I encountered Mr. Clip, I found him amusing and entertaining (that's what happens when you live alone)...until I needed to do what I needed to do. He's like a possessed puppy, sniffing and barking in your face, but you have no dog treats that will appease him. It didn't take long for me to tire of his "company", but it did take a while to find a way to rescind his invitation to the dance. Every once in a while I miss him (usually after I've taken major medication or have bumped my head on something), and I wonder how he's doing. Has he taken a vacation lately, other than the one I forced on him, at least in my little world? Does he have a family? Now wouldn't that be weird to have lots of little paper cliplets bouncing around on the computer screen? Does Mrs. Clip work outside the home--I'm assuming yes, if only to get away from her significantly irritating "other"?

In my next life, I want to be computer programming literate enough to create some additional, irritating "helpers" and "pop-up" reminders and to be able to selectively send them to people who are arrogant (especially about their computer skills) or have been mean to someone, including me. Wouldn't that be poetic justice? Or is that computic justice? Meanwhile, I'll have to be content knowing that what's popping up on my screen asking me if I need the latest updates for Adobe Reader, Norton Security, or replacement ink cartridges, etc., while I am in the middle of writing my epic novel on "How to Get Along" (so I can win the Nobel Prize for world peace), is also popping up on almost everyone else's, including the arrogant and mean people who, like Mr. Clip, have been "clicked" into oblivion.

I'll take "Surveys" for $800...

While I am job hunting via the Internet, I happen upon lots of interesting websites and "opportunities" to make a little money. One of these is InboxDollars. I signed up and took an initial survey. I get paid (a small amount) just for opening e-mails from them. Mostly I turn down the "HUGE OPPORTUNITY" offers for things I don't use, don't want to use, and don't want to hear about. But I do like to click on "Take Surveys" to see if there is a survey for which I qualify and for which I can earn spare change.

The process is--click on "Take Survey" and a legal document pops up on your screen explaining everything you need to know and understand, and I think there is some extraneous material included about not cutting your toenails too short to avoid ingrown nails and helpful tips on how to keep bread fresh in hot and humid weather, but I must confess that I don't read every minute detail before "I Agree" to the terms and conditions. After being "agreeable", a video with a nice young lady appears on the screen and she lectures me about being honest in my answers. I am properly chastened and decide not to pretend that I am 25, making $500,000 a year, and living on the Riviera Coast. The next screen asks me a group of questions to determine if I am eligible for the available survey(s). Now here is where I have some concern. I can usually only check off one or two in the affirmative (these questions change daily depending on who wants to "know"). My checked off items are "I watch TV" and/or "I go to movies in the theater" (as opposed to the forest? a cave? Aunt Helen's barn?). Most of the time, the other questions, which I cannot honestly check off (thanks to Ms. Preachy Person) are--"Do you consume alchoholic beverages on a daily basis?", "Do you have children in your household under the age of 8", "Do you make most of the household buying decisions", etc. Well, if you are consuming alcoholic beverages on a daily basis, you might want to hire a sober babysitter for your children and avoid making any important decisions about purchases until you have had a chance to "sleep it off". Of course, none of the surveys are asking for my opinion on these kinds of situations, so I am relegated to the occasional survey about taking pain medication--a must after job hunting and/or survey taking, or one about what kind of floor cleaner I prefer (the kind that gets rid of dirt...easily and without rinsing, thank you).

I'm thinking I might put a survey on my blog about how to spend significant amounts of time on survey-taking websites without an appropriate return on investment (of time that is), but, my eyes are now so blurry and watery from all the hours I've spent checking out the available "surveys-of-the-day" and searching through hundreds of job postings, applying online to jobs that seemed promising even when the "apply online" procedure was less than user friendly--can you say "user hostile and confusing"? (Some links are missing, kind of like the Dr. Leaky issue, and by the time I try to cut and paste my resume to fit into their limited "space" I forget what the job is for which I am applying. I have also found that, after completing a lengthy application, I can not return to the page detailing the job without losing the application in the process, so I wing it and hope that what I write in my application has some relevance to the job.) And so I find that I can no longer see my monitor screen clearly. I love Monet and all those Impressionists but in a museum, not on my screen. If Van Gogh had lived in today's world and had to deal with the imperfections of websites and other related portals, he would probably have cut off his other ear! As for me, I'm cutting this off while I can still see well enough to exit the programs I have open....

And for this trees are dying?

I subscribe to a daily paper here in Louisville, KY, "The Courier-Journal". Most days the paper is no "biggie", but on Sunday, the paper takes on a different persona and could be legally labeled a lethal weapon. It weighs "pounds" and, if hurled through the air by anyone other than a 98-pound weakling, can knock an adult off his or her feet onto his or her kiester!

I usually wait to read the Sunday paper until I return from church, because, if I try to read it beforehand, I either have to get up at 4AM, so I can read and get ready for church, or, if I get up at my regular 7AM time, I'll miss church completely. And, I am not going to hedge my bet on the eternities by reading the newspaper instead of being at church.

This past Sunday, I picked up the paper to move it to my dining room table so I could eat lunch and read at my leisure. I believe I am now in the market for a truss for the hernia I developed picking up said paper. It isn't that there's more newsy stuff occurring on a Saturday and so the paper has to expand three-fold in order to accommodate all the (borrowing from the egotistical adage of the "NY Times") "news that's fit to print". No, it's a result of all the "flyers" and "booklets" that are wrapped up like a gigantic, pulpy "fish" in the real newspaper part. Looking at all the ads--which I find disconcerting (who has so much discretionary income that they need to be offered so many opportunities to spend their money?), it would appear that the world no longer works, at least here in Kentuckiana, but spends all its time and money at sales and discount retailers. Obviously, here in horse country, people don't shop until they drop. They just shop and never drop.

All these ads and all this paper devoted to "shopping" got me thinking about the unnecessary killing of trees to support this weekly advertising blitz. Perhaps, we readers should rebundle our Sunday paper, send it to the Pentagon and they can use it to bomb our enemies. Drop a load of these puppies on a targeted bad guy area and we'll destroy people instantly (or at least knock them silly or unconscious). There won't be any toxic issues (just some landfill ones), no spreading of after effects, no destruction of personal property (unless you consider someone's head personal property), and no massive weapons industrial complex needed. So what's not to like. And, once the "bomb" hits its target, people who are left standing can read the newspaper ads and they will become stunned, numbed, and neutralized. There will be no more shouts of "Kill the enemy!" "Death to the American Imperialists!" These will be replaced by "Let's head to Wallie's Wonder World of Discount Everything or Jimmie's Used Car and Recycled Tennis Rackets!"

I think maybe I'll run for president of these United States and this will be the foundation piece of my platform. I'll be recycling, finding a safer means of "negotiating" with the enemy, and helping out with the landfill situation here at home by filling some other country's land. They say that the pen is mightier than the sword. Let's put that to good use. My motto will be "All the news that's fit to bomb!" Pretty catchy don't you think? I believe my approach to the highest office in the land (not the fill kind) rates right up there with the two major party candidates. Don't stop the presses! Forget the Democrats or Republicans or Libertarians or the Green Party, vote for me as a write-in candidate. The economy will probably get worse under my administration, as will our international standing, our environment, our educational stystem, etc., but we won't have to wonder what to do with all those dusty old stacks of newspapers.... Now isn't that a load off your mind? And I approved of this message.

Flea markets...

I went to one yesterday, with my sister. I hadn't been to a flea market for a very long time, so I don't know what I was thinking I would find there. I enjoyed the ride through some of Kentucky's horse farm territory and the green, rolling hills. I almost enjoyed getting lost trying to follow the directions I had (only because the scenery was beautiful). The sign at the itsy-bitsy road into the flea market venue didn't face the road from either direction, so the only ways you would see it as you drove by, were 1) if you stopped dead in the middle of the road (giving all those behind you a little adrenaline and reflex check) at just the right place, and looked east. Of course, if you were on the side of the road heading south, you'd have to have pretty amazing turning ability--kind of like Michael Phelps at the pool wall in a 100-meter or more race--or you'd have to do a little turnaround to get back to the skimpy road's entrance; or 2) throw caution to the wind and drive east from west across the roadway from the gas station on the other side of the entrance. Chicken heart that I am, I chose the turnaround, and I had so much fun doing that, that I did it three times--I kept missing the minute (my-noot) opening to the road.

So, finally, after a lot of effort and half my gas tank emptying, I made it. I drove down the lovely, tree-lined dirt road to a bunch of metal buildings. No signs or labels showing where to enter or start the flea festivities. I parked and looked for my sister. She said she'd be wearing a red top and waiting out in the parking lot at the far end--where I sat. I didn't see anything red, except for a couple of veins in my eyeballs as I checked my rear view mirror so I could pull out of my parking space and search for my sister. I did see someone at the opposite end of this line of buildings, but she was wearing pale apricot. I have affronted individuals before, in public, whom I thought I knew but found out I didn't, so I am a little reluctant to go on the attack anymore, especially now that I'm aging and my eyes, even with glasses, just don't capture clearly what I look at in the distance. (I love Monet and all the rest of those Impressionists for making it "okay" to see things in a blurry, painterly view!) I slowly worked my way down to the place where I had seen the apricot-shirted person, but, by the time I got there, she had disappeared. I decided to just park, get out and look around and hopefully find someone, anyone wearing a red shirt. I was ready to redo my genealogy....

After a few minutes of my standing, staring, turning my head and looking hopelessly dopey (as in Snow and the Seven Guys), my sister appeared. She was wearing apricot. Now, I'm pretty good with colors, but no matter how long I looked at her top, I couldn't put it in the red category. When I asked her about the color, she said she'd spilled something on her red shirt and had to change. When I asked her about parking at the far end, she said she found a parking place right off the entrance road and took it. Without further ado, I unseated her as the person in charge of meeting up anywhere. From now on, we'll have to confirm fashion and parking via cell phone en route. The downside of that is that I won't have any funny stories to put on my blog.

To continue our adventure, we entered the first building. Oh my! There were so many booths, so much to see, so little to buy. Hadn't I just gotten rid of a bunch of stuff at our Mom's house before making my journey to Kentucky? Well, it must have followed me here! There were some scary items--T-shirts and other paraphernalia with gory themes, some lethal ones--guns and knives, some items that looked as if they would fall apart as soon as you paid for them, some that were dusty and dirty (I have that at home already, thank you), and a few things that were clever and worth the price. These latter items were all sold. Guess the early birds found the only worthwhile "worms". There were food concessions with everything fried, including the napkins and plasticware (just kidding). We took a pass on that because the lines were long and we still had several buildings ahead of us. In our last building, at the very end, there were cold cases full of meat. The cases were like those you see at your local grocer's, except they were off-color, dirty and the compressors were making sounds like a B-52 about to take off. The meat, and maybe it was just the lighting, appeared to have an, uhm, certain hue to it. Both my sister and I wondered if the meat was actually cold enough not to give everyone in the western end of Kentucky food poisoning. We were both tempted to walk over to the cases to touch the wrapped packages to see if they were cold to the touch, but both of us knew we'd gasp loudly if we found they weren't, so we, just like Elvis, left the building. I read the newspaper today. I didn't read about hospitals overflowing with food-poisoned flea marketers, but then, maybe I'm a day ahead of myself. We'll see what tomorrow brings. I may call my stockbroker and buy stock in whoever manufactures Donagel or Kaopectate.

By the way, other than the Avon eye-makeup remover cream my sister bought, the only thing we left with was possibly fleas. I've been itching and scratching ever since our little visit yesterday...too bad they weren't selling flea collars. That I could have used.

If I were in the Olympics...

there would have to be some new categories. I don't run, jump, catapult myself through the air on a skimpy stick, do anything on the rings, pommel, parallel bars, or vault (unless it's in a bank and I'm accessing my safe deposit box). If I'm riding a bike, it has to be stationary with training wheels, and, although I swim, I'd have to practice in my apartment complex pool which means that I would dive in, take one stroke and be at the other end. I guess I could really get my turns down, but I'd get dizzy pretty quickly, turning, turning, turning. Then I'd be disoriented and would stagger out of the pool, so, unless the Olympic Committee has added "walking like a person under the influence" as a new event, I'd be out of luck.

All of that aside, here are the categories that I think should be added--1) walking upright for 100 yards in a snazzy outfit, 2) remembering to bring reading glasses to a social event so you don't have to share one pair with 39 other people (question--why do people, who obviously need reading glasses, always fail to bring them when going out? Not bringing them so you can read menus, timetables, schedules, greeting cards--if you're at a birthday or anniversary party--etc. doesn't change the fact that you're "older" and need them. Not bringing them proves that you are in denial, can't see, and/or that your memory, along with your eyesight, is shot). 3) speed denture installation--this needs no explanation. Let the best gummy applicator win!, 4) best use of a cane or walker routine set to music--this wouldn't be as pretty as the routines with the ribbons twirling, but it would certainly be more entertaining, 5) putting on a spandex gymnastics leotard or full-body swimsuit while remaining standing--this would be a timed event and might take a day or two, 6) dinosaur dressage (proving the point to our children that we indeed lived in the days when dinosaurs walked the earth), 7) shuffleboard (and if you have to ask what this is, you won't qualify for the event), 8) speed bingo with small "tokens" and cards that have tiny print (those who have excelled at the number 2 event noted above will have an advantage here), 9) lacing up and tying your sneakers while bending over, and finally, 10) equestrian endurance rides (this can only be done if the host nation has a Wal-Mart nearby and the entrant has a roll of quarters).

Let the games begin!

Dressing a baby...

isn't like dressing a dollie or your cat or dog or even the Thanksgiving turkey. No, dressing a baby is one of those things that new moms especially enjoy. The baby has no rights, cannot protest (in words at least) or run away and hide in the closet or garden shed until mummsy's desire to dress said baby in some cute little snookums outfit passes.

Many of us, pre-baby, will protest that we will not dress our innocent little child in any outlandish, goofy-looking, cutsey-poo outfits, but that promise disappears like mist on a lake as soon as we are home from the hospital and we start trotting out all the cute little outfits that friends and family have given us or that we have found on our own. We have froggie, duckie, goosie, puppy, kitty, bear-y and other assorted animal get ups at our disposal. We also have outfits that are way too big for our newborn, but we are driven to dress him or her up in everything in the dresser drawers and closets of the nursery.

If we really want to think ahead to possible, future means of subduing (or should I say blackmailing) a child, especially a tween or teen, who has left the I-love-mommy-no-matter-what stage and entered the I-only-love-you-when-I-need-to-go-to-the-mall-or-get-the-car-keys mode, then we'll store up all the "ammunition" we can. So we get out the camera and dress and click 'til our hearts content or our baby is worn out and falls asleep. I had a friend who did this with every baby outfit given to her first-born. She then sent a copy of the photo to the person whose gift it was so they could see how "cute" the outfit and the baby were together. Cute is a word that every parent discovers loses is luster as a child enters the two-digit age group. Clothes can be cool or awesome or rad, but they cannot be cute and leave the house on the body of your child.

My youngest son is a case in point. Of my three children, he was the easiest to dress up and I was able to do it for quite a while longer with him than with the other two before he reluctantly complained. His (and my) day of reckoning came when I laid out his church clothes and he put on everything but the very cutsey-poo sweater I had bought him in Rome. It was red (a favorite color of his) with a big teddy bear, fuzzy emblem dead center on the front. He put it on and then lowered his head as if I'd just pinned the scarlet letter on him, and he whispered, in a very quiet voice, that he didn't want to wear a sweater with a bear on it. (His nickname was Bear.) I had to ask him to repeat what he said loudly enough so I could hear him. He did and I recoiled knowing that I had run out of children whom I could dress up, photograph and publicly humiliate with my need for childish, gimmicky fashion statements. My youngest changed his sweater to something plain and "more mature" looking, and I went looking for our cat. I also went a little overboard that year with our turkey. I just couldn't resist those very cute little white "boots" that go on each drumstick and a flouncy, lacy suturing at the neck cavity to keep the dressing from bursting out. The turkey did not protest, but wore his bib and tucker with great aplomb. The cat is still missing....

Job huntin'...where's my rifle?

I am currently looking for employment...mostly in all the right places. I am registered with two agencies, I search the Internet daily and read the local newspaper classifieds.

So far I have had one "real" interview, one mini-interview with a human resources person who appeared to be as uninterested as she could be, and a few e-mail responses saying "thanks but no thanks". It's discouraging because I know I could do any of the jobs, for which I apply, in my sleep. I have "dumbed down" my resume so potential employers won't think I want to be the president of the company or expect a fantabulous salary with a gold parachute (and a jet plane to boot). Hopefully, that will bring in a few more interview opportunities.

This "bloggity" is not to complain about what a pain it is to search for a job--which, incidentally, is true. Just think about it--you're selling yourself, hoping that someone wants to buy your "act" and hire you, and when you do not receive a lot of positive feedback it can be discouraging. You also spend a lot of time second-guessing yourself thinking about your resume--is it too much, too little, and wondering if your references to herding dinosaurs as a youth highlights your age issue. But, back to the point at hand, which is not to whine about what isn't right or fair, but to discuss some of the peculiarities of test taking for employment agencies and companies seeking employees.

I recently took a test for a US Census management position consisting of 29 questions about workplace/management issues. Part of my adventure the day of the test included arriving 45 minutes early at the library branch where said test was to take place. I signed up for a library card and sat at a reading table with the "Wall Street Journal" in hand. I was so proud of myself for finding the library
--tucked back into a strip mall with no signage at the street side entrance, creating an opportunity to drive throughout the parking lot and mall searching for any sign of librariness (and people wonder why the illiteracy rate is high!), and I was proud that I was early thinking that would help me be calm and prepared for the test. The testing was scheduled to begin at 1:30PM, and, at 1:05, a library staff member approached me and asked if I were there for the census test. "Yep, that would be me!" Well, she said, "The test is at another branch today, so you'll need to go there. You're the second person who came here by mistake." Let's see, I spoke with the US Census scheduler-of-tests and was told to come to this library, but that was just a little government joke, a test of resourcefulness and driving skills. I was given the new location and directions to get there and I put on my Mario Andretti persona and proceeded to drive down the highway of life--at 80 miles an hour, praying that all the Kentucky State Troopers were on lunch break.... Fortunately, no one got in my way en route and I arrived only five minutes late. I rushed into the library and was directed to the room where the test was being administered. Voila!! No one but the test administrator was there and she was pretty dang casual about what time it was. Two more people showed up and at about 2:00 we started. (The efficiency of our government at any level is a topic for another whole blog entry.) We were given only one hour to complete our test. Now you're probably thinking that answering 29 questions in 60 minutes is a piece o' cake, but these questions made my eyeballs roll backward and I felt dizzy--kind of like I felt while racing to get to the test site on time. Remember those horrid math questions we all took for college--"If two people get on the train at Blah City, and three people get off, and the conductor drops his ticket puncher, how long will it take to get to Freeze-Your-Rump, South Dakota?" Well, these questions made those pale in comparison. And we were told that we should choose the "best" or "closest" answer. So, with only two minutes per question, I started a mental argument between my better side and my better-get-it-right side on every question. Oh, and did I mention that there was a little "story" or table or example that you had to review before you could make your "best" guess. Whatever confidence I had when I walked into the test room, disappeared as my brain fought to find something familiar in the fog of the US Census quiz. I thought my brain had turned to gray jelly and I swear I could hear it sloshing about in my head as I tried to reason my way to the correct, or should I say, best answer. I finished about 10 minutes before the time was "up" and was told that I did very well on the test. Not sure what that meant--possibly that I could print my name legibly and remembered my social security number and birth date. Probably. We'll see if anything comes of this little mental exercise. Three hours and $8 worth of gas later, I arrived home. I'm not sure I am capable of managing an office and crews of census takers (enumerators is the official title, just in case you were dying to know this) after this experience. I may just be one of the millions counted.

Finally, I must also note that one of the tests I took on-line while job hunting in California (before my move to Kentucky) required knowledge of corporate decorum and dress. I don't think I did well on this test. I think smacking someone alongside the head when they're uncooperative saves time and energy and pretty much gets the point across as to who is boss. As for wardrobe appropriateness, I do know how to clean up pretty well, but I question which corporation or company in America has a need to know whether I believe that taupe should be included as a "corporate" color along with navy, gray, and black. I'm thinking that the questions should be more like--"How much of your belly should be visible to clients and your colleagues?" or "Is cleavage a good sales tactic or just plain distracting?" or "If your flip-flops make too much noise whilst you walk about the office, will it lower the worker productivity or, if you walk fast enough, speed things up?" There aren't many work places these days who have any fashion requirements or dress codes, but I guess those who do will hire the fashionistas even if they can't function. At least they'll look spiffy in their corner offices or cubicles and perhaps this will become the theme for an episode of "The Office".... Meanwhile, my search continues and I have vowed to occasionally wear taupe to an interview just to thumb my nose at corporate America!

This is why I need therapy...

I have been blogging for over a year, but just today I finally figured out (or took the time, blood, sweat and tears needed) to post a picture on my blog. I can't believe I did it! And the photo isn't upside down or sideways!! Woohoo!!! Miracles do happen. This photo is my daughter, Brynley, and me, taken during her visit (which ended today...sniff, sniff) to Louisville, KY in mid-July. But, after all the mental straining required to get the photo from one place on my computer to another, I either need a serious nap or some serious therapy. I think I vote for the serious nap--it doesn't cost anything and I don't have to be on someone else's schedule or be cut off mid-sentence when my "time is up".

Maybe tomorrow I'll put some other photos on my blog of other family members. I'll need a good night's sleep and sturdy breakfast to attempt another such feat, but I think I'm up for the job. I'm feeling confident. I'm feeling knowledgeable. I'm feeling superior to those who still can't do what I did (but that won't last long because I may forget what I did and how I did it and I'll be back to the blood, sweat and tears and the phone call to one of my computer-savvy children). For now, I am celebrating and then napping. Success is good and there is much rejoicing, except for Wilbur, my papier mache pig, who is just a little jealous because he will never be able to post anything on a blog. Good night and good luck....to me that is, hoping that, in the morning, my slippery-as-grease-in-a-pan memory will serve me well.

Grammar School

I have noticed of late that the English language is being misused and abused, mostly by people who think comic books are classic literature and video games are Oscar-worthy "screenplays" (well, there is a screen involved and there is play).

I am not the perfect grammartarian because I still haven't quite got the "lie" vs. "lay" issue figured out, which is why I avoid using those verbs and get mental hernias trying to find suitable substitutes. However, I know most of the rules of the verbal road and I obey them. I like the sound of a language being spoken properly. I wonder about the upbringing and education of individuals who, on a daily basis, mispronounce, misuse, misapply, and otherwise ignore the basic rules for speaking and writing.

Me and her went to the store. Yep. You did. Too bad she and you didn't purchase a book on the proper use of pronouns while you were there. We was doing real good on our project. Well, except for mangling the language perhaps, yes, you was, I mean were. And this grammartrocity isn't limited to the spoken word, it is also rampant in the written word. Verbs and nouns don't match up
--plural needs plural and singular begs for singular. Participles are left dangling (a very uncomfortable situation). Sentences end before fully formed. Punctuation has taken a vacation and is not returning. Spelling has checked out, left the building.

I had an excellent English teacher in high school. He always told my class that we are what we read. If we read well-written, well-thought-out verbiage, we will speak and write it. If we read Harlequin Romances, the joke will be on us. I know that math and science have been put at the forefront of education these days, but not everyone is going to be an Albert Einstein or Werner VonBraun. The percentage of mathematicians and scientists in an adult, working population is small. The vast majority of students will not be wearing lab coats or focusing on whether the theory of relativity is still relative. Doesn't it make sense to include instruction in other subjects, not the least of which is one emphasizing the proper use of language? And while we are at "it", let's lose the R-rated words that appear to have a unique ability to shift from verb to noun to adverb to adjective. Pretty soon we'll have a vocabulary that consists of approximately 10 words (ones that would prompt your mother to lather up your mouth with soap back in the "good ol' days"). We will be unable to precisely express ourselves and much will be left to interpretation. Perhaps the only people who will still be using $5 words that won't require that you be accompanied by an adult when reading, will be the lawyers. They will continue to use words to detail legal documents, etc. and, at $5 a word, we will all pay dearly for this language skill. If the Bible is right and there will be no lawyers in Heaven, does that mean life will be Hell when we find ourselves in a verbal traffic jam at the crossroads of "Whatssup" and "Hey Dawg"? Hopefully not. Hopefully me and her and everyone else will have decided that William Shakespeare (and other great writers) isn't just a dead guy with nothing to say to us. And hopefully enough people will think a return to the use of proper language, decorum and social mores isn't "Bunches of Stuff about Nada" but will still be called, "Much Ado About Nothing"....

Returning the corner

I purchased a watermelon (interior unseen) the other night and I looked forward to juicy, red watermelon for a summer treat. I planned to cut it up the next day and put it in the refrigerator to make it nice and cold for eating. I had a plan. I had a watermelon. I had a knife. I had a cutting board. So, there I was implements and food item in place. I cut the bottom end off to give the melon a flat surface to "stand" on--a culinary trick I learned from a bona fide chef, who graduated from the Cordon Bleu in Paris, while I was serving as the main cook at a girls' camp several years ago. Monsier Chef Bleu was the chef at the "resort" where camp was held. He taught my staff and I to cut both ends off, then the rind, then cut the "meat" in half, quarters, slices and cubes. It is a fast, effective and efficient way to cut up a watermelon.

Back to my current melon story--I made the second cut and noticed that the meat of the melon was not exactly red. It also wasn't exactly pink. It was, however, an orange yellow color and there didn't seem to be much juice in it. I thought I had purchased, by mistake, a yellow watermelon, normally a food I couldn't afford. I continued to do my Cordon Bleu cutting and saw that the inside cuts on the melon yielded yellow, orange and light pink innards. I cut a small piece, tasted it and realized that I had purchased the Roswell, NM watermelon. It was a mutant, an alien and definitely not a watermelon meant for eating, unless your name is Wilbur and you like leftovers served in a trough or the mud. Since I paid $3.49 for the melon, I decided I would return it for a refund.

How does a person return a melon that has been cut up? In a plastic container with evidence of the outside skin included so the Customer Service person will believe you when you say it's a watermelon. Today was "Return A Watermelon" day and I drove it back to Wal-Mart. There is not only a greeter at the entrance to Wal-Mart, but a person who puts pink stickers on returns. I had the watermelon slices in my container and, when asked by the Return Policeperson if I had something to return, I responded, "Yes. I have a watermelon." Well, I got a look. He asked me how I could return something that I had mutilated. (My knives may not be Ginsu, but I had definitely not mutilated my melon.) He wished me good luck (that didn't sound promising), told me he wished he could be at Customer Service when I made my pitch and asked me to let him know what happened. I expected to be handcuffed, put in an orange jumpsuit and made to parade in front of Wal-Mart with a placard declaring that I made an inappropriate return request. Instead, the young lady, who helped me, looked at the melon slices, declared them "Gross" and asked, "What is that?" and handed me $3.49. With a triumphant smile and a swagger, I walked out of the Wal-Mart, past the Return Police, letting him know that I had been successful in obtaining a refund and then I promptly dumped the slices into the garbage container and went home.

I probably will not purchase any more Roswell watermelons, but, if I do, I know I will have another story to tell and at least $3.49 coming my way--about the amount I'll spend on gas to return it....

Ta dah!

I'm bbbbbaaaaaaaaccccckkkkk! Yep, the Big Apple was great. I didn't do anything to get arrested, including speeding to and from New York on the highways and byways of life. Spent one day in the City, but it was good and there was much rejoicing, especially by the cafe that overcharged Barrett and me for salad and flat bread, but who cares! It's New York and if I weren't overcharged, I'd be in Topeka!

Spent time with the family and everyone survived with most body parts intact and only minor mental dents and dings. That's why there's therapy. And that's why Brynley is going to be a therapist, so our family can get "fixed"--not like what you do to the dog or cat so they can't reproduce, although maybe, in some instances, that's not a bad idea. Oh, too late. I've had children, and I'm not reversing the process!

I arrived home this evening and, after stopping for some groceries so I won't be forced to eat cardboard for breakfast, I put everything away and headed straight for my compooter. Missed e-mailing and blogginess. Thanks to the three lovely individuals who commented on my last entry. It made me happy. And my invisible friends are happy because I've stopped kvetsching (spelling?). I will continue to write regardless of "commentors", but everyone likes to be recognized every once in a while, well, except for people in a police line-up who are trying to make facial "changes" whilst they are being scrutinized so they won't be recognized for their dastardly deeds.

A bite out of the Big Apple...

I'm leaving tomorrow morning to drive to New York. Didn't think I'd make any long drives for a while, after the cross-country adventure of late April, but with a slippery mind and a gluttonous appetite for punishment, I'm off on another long drive!

I won't be posting anything for the next several days as I spend a gazillion dollars on gas cruising through Kentucky, West Virginia, Maryland, Delaware, Pennsylvania and, finally, New York, but, since it appears that my readership has "left the building" along with Elvis, it mattereth not.

When I return from my sojourn in the Big Apple (not to be confused with the computer manufacturer), I'll check to see if anyone besides my invisible friends has been reading my blog. My invisible friends won't leave comments since they're invisible and no matter how hard they try, they can't depress the keys on the keyboard and I don't have "speak and type" software for my computer. My papier mache pig has no interest in reading or leaving comments, so that leaves me with a very small fan base. Actually, it leaves me with no fan base at all, but, being a Pollyanna, I write regardless of the strength or length of the readership. So there....

Why it's dangerous to write after midnight

Well, for some people, it's dangerous to put anything in writing at any time. There are always critics out there (wherever there is) waiting, no, lurking in the proverbial bushes ready to pounce on anything that someone else dares to put in print. These self-appointed critics love to find grammatical errors, misspellings, poor sentence structure, lack of logic, etc. I know this because I am a "lurker". Yep. I admit it. I'm currently in a twelve-step program to unlurk myself and I've been doing reasonably well. The downside is--I can't read anything except the labels on cans and boxes of food, and then I can only read the ingredients or nutritional facts. That's part of the therapy. I have become so much less critical over the past few days as I've limited my reading material. However, I find that I am only able to speak or write about food items and nutritional values, which is rather limiting and quite boring unless you get excited about serving portions, sodium amounts or how to pronounce certain preservatives that the government allows food producers to use so we won't be offended by odd colors or smells when we open cans of food. I'm working my way up the food pyramid, but meanwhile, it's after midnight, so I'd better mind my peas and carrots and sign off before I'm tempted to venture beyond the "safe zone" and backslide into my critical mass mode....

Am I losing my mind?

Probably. But I think I've lost the part of my brain that tells me I've lost my mind and so I can't be sure. I have noticed a windy sound whenever I tilt my head to the left, so I'm thinking (with much smaller results) that the vacuous place is where the gray matter used to be that helped me keep my brain intact. Or it could just be the alternating stuffy and runny nose I woke up with this morning. Some people hate to wake up alone....

I went to bed last night feeling a little under the weather--now where in heaven's name did this saying come from (or should I be Englishly correct and say "from where did this saying come")? Does the saying mean we can actually avoid the weather patterns by crouching under them (crouching is not an easy feat for me anymore, so I'll have to weigh the merits of that versus ever walking upright again)? At any rate, I fell asleep wondering if my nose would still be with me when I awakened in the morning. It was, but it was elusive--running all over the place. And when it isn't doing its best imitation of a small, fleshy waterfall, it's doing a rendition of a plumbing pipe that desperately needs a Draino fix. Since I'm home alone (and not attacking two burglars at the moment, like the kid in the movie), I can stuff tissue up each nostril and call it a "look" or I can test myself to see how quickly I can sprint for the box of Kleenex when my nose bolts out of the starting gate, running wildly down the track.

Whenever I have a stuffy nose, it feels as if my brain is also stuffy (and not the British stiff upper lip kind of stuffy either). No. My head feels as if the six visiting spiders, who have been assigned to be swallowed by me this year, have been pushing dense, web-like materials up my nostrils all night long, and I realize that I have a lot of empty, open space in my cranium. Poor spidies must work all night just to fill it up. Now, having a stuffy head means sleeping with one's mouth wide open and we know what the spiders plan to do with the gaping yaw. Beyond the tickle in the throat that may just be an arachnid slip-sliding his or her way into oblivion (also known as the stomach), there is the issue of a very dry mouth, and the question of whether to quench one's thirst and risk middle-of-the-night bathroom trips or to stay parched and sleep poorly, dreaming all the while of large lakes and running water that you walk toward but can never reach. Another side effect of "mouth open and dry" is snoring. If you are sleeping with another individual right next to you, there may be a homicide in the offing. If there are others in the household with normal hearing, there may be a group beating. No wonder I'm losing sleep and my mind worrying about my personal safety. Maybe I'll give the NyQuil to everyone in my household so they'll sleep soundly and my blowing, sniffing and occasional snoring won't disturb them. I can spend the time while they're asleep searching for my mind amid the mountain range of rumpled tissues....

Strange bedfellows and more...

There is a saying (author unknown) that politicians make strange bedfellows. I believe the origin of this has to do with the limited hostelry, funds and need for politicians back in Revolutionary War days, who traveled together, to bed down together--not only in the same room, but often in the same bed. However, this little historical background fact does not explain how today's politicians (candidates running for the same office), who spend volumes of money, time and energy bad-mouthing their opponents at every turn by telling all of us why we must vote for them and why it is urgent that we do not support the other candidates unless we want to bring about the world's worst calamity, can acquiesce so easily and become the staunchest of supporters if and when they lose the nomination. All of a surgeon (yes, I know I wrote "surgeon" not "sudden"), the horrible, terrible, heinously bad person who was running against them is now the individual behind whom all "losers" (yep, that's what they are technically and otherwise) stand and wholeheartedly endorse, spending their efforts to get that former enemy elected.

In my world we call this hypocrisy. We call it two-faced. We call it phony. We call it insincere. We call it bizarre. Call me crazy, but doesn't it bother anyone that politicians can so quickly change from "he/she is a disaster in the making" to "it's all about getting someone (anyone) from my party elected, even if I think the nominee is a Philistine, a Cretan, a character from the comic books who doesn't or can't save the day"? This attitude bothers me. A lot. If the losing candidates didn't think that the primary/delegate "winner" was the best person for the job when they decided they needed to throw their hats into the ring, then what has changed over the months to bring any of them to the conclusion that this individual deserves to win? We have heard some pretty ugly comments and criticisms made by competitors about other candidates abilities to think, to formulate appropriate policy, to know how or whether a policy is even viable, to deal with major, important issues at home and abroad, how often they have flip-flopped on issues, and how they plan to keep the promises they have made. We seem to have a collective amnesia. How convenient for the two major political parties, but how devastatingly inconvenient for the public, the constituents. How can we trust endorsements by individuals who are willing to trade their once insistent/uncompromising view of how the country needs to be run at all levels and by them, for a party victory at all cost? Candidates, who have lost, want to stay in good standing with their party--hopes for a future run at the presidency abound, or a vice-presidency selection awaits, or whatever. Isn't there anyone out there who lost, but still feels strongly about what he or she said during the primary campaign period and who can't compromise his or her standards just to be popular or acceptable by a political party system that seems to be feeding on itself? Someone will be elected president in November and take office in January. Delegates and Super Delegates will cast their votes at summer conventions. People will wave signs and flags and toss confetti and act excited about the prospect of their party's candidate assuming the highest office in the land. Approximately 1/4 of the adult population of this country will fill out a ballot, pull a lever, use a touch-screen to vote. Maybe this is the percentage that isn't bothered by the process we currently use to choose our candidates. Maybe the remainder of the population is numbed by the process, doesn't care, thinks it doesn't matter anyway, or is protesting the whole event by not voting. This voter apathy is a huge price to pay for a system in need of review and repair, as is a "victory at all cost" where politicians sell themselves and their platforms to remain at the table.

I have a friend who opined that we should have one day for all states to hold their primaries, so everyone can vote for all the candidates, for all the individuals who feel that have a vision for America. This would eliminate a lot of time and money (an political ads) that could be better spent solving the problems we face as a nation--poverty, immigration, the undereducated, lack of health care, unemployment, etc. It would also level the playing field. Good, solid candidates don't always "make it" to the latter part of the primary process because they lack funds, local party endorsements, or a mud-slinging campaign by other candidates or the media sullies their reputation even when there is no truth to what is said. I like my friend's idea. I think it makes sense. Now that's a concept--a political process that makes sense, puts all contenders on equal footing, and limits the ad-nauseum media analysis and exposure. I'll vote for that! Meanwhile, I keep my TV remote handy and am becoming adept at clicking away from any and all politicals advertisements, "intellectual" dissections of campaigns or candidates, or the like. By the time November rolls around, I should be down to a nanosecond clickability. And Thanksgiving comes shortly after the national election. Carve the bird. Pass the potatoes and stuffing and offer gratitude for four more years before it all starts again....

It's 10 PM. Do you know where your brain is....

It's Sunday night, June 1st, and I'm spending my first night in my new place. It's a townhouse, but all on one level. I have a full basement--great for storing stuff!--which adds an additional 1000 square feet to the total space I have available. There's no one above me or on three sides of me. My only contiguous wall is a fireplace wall, so I should have minimal "noise" transference from another dwelling. That makes me happy.

The thought of being back in an apartment setting with tenants over my head doing their version of the unrepentant clog dancer's lament every day and night or entertaining me with music or TV I don't want to hear was sending me off the deep end. As I started my search for a place to live, I determined that I would only rent a townhouse style apartment--no one over head or underneath me. I saw several places that were nice, but, with my penchant for accumulating "stuff" that I am sure I cannot live without, I was concerned about fitting everything into those spaces. Then my Sister and I drove by Heritage Hill Townhouses & Apartments, and, voila, there was a one-storied townhouse with a full basement, just waiting for me. Not only was the rent reasonable, my new abode is located in Middletown (a suburb of Louisville) and everything is nearby. The bonus was a month's free rent and the basement--where it will be cool in the summer and a place to hide out if a tornado threatens to touch down (something that does happen in this part of the country). I am moving my art studio downstairs where I can make messy and not have to clean up unless I'm in a very, very, very good mood (last one of those occurred about 10 years ago). I have my computer and my sewing table in my bedroom, so I can work in comfort, and my living room can be just that--a place to relax or entertain. I have two full bathrooms--one for guests and one for just me and a kitchen with a skylight to bring in the sun. I love it!

So, yes, it's 10 PM and I know where my brain is, now that I have some sense of order in my life. And, as soon as I get up from my chair, I'll pick it up off the floor (where it fell when I bent over a few minutes ago) and I'll put it back in my cranium.

Sale away...

It seems as if any holiday, especially one designated as a Monday holiday so we can have a long weekend, is no longer an opportunity to celebrate the reason for which the holiday was originally created.

We don't celebrate the birthdays of some of our presidents of the U.S., we celebrate Presidents' Day (lumping them all together) or, for some lucky kids, Presidents' Week (still lumping them together). We go on vacations to the sun, to the snow, or week-long expeditions to the mall. Every manufacturer, ever retail outlet, practically every business has a sale that day. But how often do we think about those presidents who have given us our holidays? Or, for other holidays such as Memorial Day, Fourth of July, Labor Day, or Veterans' Day, how often do we think about the veterans who gave us their time or their lives so we are free to have a job that allows us enough money and the time to take a vacation or buy more stuff at the mall? How often do we pay tribute to the formation of this country, its government, the philosophy that affords us the freedom to declare that we'll not only have a holiday to celebrate, but that we get to take time from work (banks, post offices, government offices, schools, businesses, etc.) and move freely about the US of A at will in order to spend our day or our dollar (or both if a car is involved)?

There's nothing wrong with having sales on holidays, but it appears that the focus of our holidays currently is to "shop". We only have picnics or parades or BBQ-ing before or after we have been properly merchandized. People complain about Christmas becoming too "commercial". Well, I'm not sure that all of our holidays haven't become one big "commercial" enterprise. Considering that houses are getting bigger--we do need more space for all that stuff we are convinced must be purchased, especially on sale, sometimes two for the price of one!--and landfills are quickly being overwhelmed by items being thrown away in record volume (some of which are probably serviceable, fixable, re-usable but which don't meet the current needs of their former owners). Perhaps we should return our focus to the original group, person, ideal for which the holiday stands, refuse to buy more stuff until what we have wears out, is given to someone who can use it or is recycled, and enjoy the day off being with family and friends, enjoying the bounties of nature, our community, and just how fortunate we are to live in a country that affords us yearly opportunities to say "thank you" to those who made sacrifices in order for us to be free. Buying $100 designer jeans for $79.99 or a new car with gas coupons that will keep our fuel purchases at $2.99/gallon no matter what, just don't seem like appropriate ways to pay homage to great men and women and the ideals that continue to draw the attention of the world's citizens. So, if you must spend some of your holiday shopping, at least take a few moments to remember that the liberty you enjoy in so doing came at a cost.

Roadies in Kentucky

On my way to church this morning (I was a few minutes late), I was driving a little faster than normal to make up my deficit. Most of the roads I drive en route are single-lane (with no shoulders in case another car is coming from the opposite direction; all this just to make the adrenaline flow a little faster) or are double-laned, but narrow. There's no room for a Hummer on one side and a small scooter on the other. I think Kentucky drivers, who live in the "country", must pray a lot that they won't be creamed or run off the road into a ditch. I know I do.

Back to the story--I'm driving along and I see something on the road ahead of me shaped like half a football with four legs, a tail and a long neck with a small head. I stop (there isn't much traffic early on a Sunday morning) and wait for Mr. Turtle to slowly work his way across the road to get to the other side (and I wonder, as I watch, if turtles know the answer to the chicken question about why they cross the road). I realize that the words "scoot", "hurry", "speed-up", or "move it" are not in the turtle's lexicon. I am now officially late, so, after Brother Turtle finishes his journey, I "hurry" on with my task, hoping I won't meet another turtle or some deer (met five of them yesterday afternoon crossing the same road--there must be some animal map with this particular spot noted as a "safe crossing" which all the local furry or shelled folks read). I'm feeling confident that I can make up for my lost time until I come around a curve and find a bicyclist ahead of me. I'm on that narrow road with no shoulders (well, I have shoulders, but the road doesn't), no turn out, and a double yellow line. What's a frantic motorist to do? No, I didn't run over the cyclist (it's Sunday and I'm going to church, so I'm thinking generous, charitable thoughts--the murderous ones will come along Monday morning). I just slowed down and contemplated how late I might be if I had to follow him all the way to church. Then I contemplated how much the ticket would cost if I went around him in a no passing zone. I bought the ticket (well, not literally, because there were no police around for my little motoring indiscretion) and zipped passed the cyclist. I was only five minutes late. Moral of the story--leave early, plan on obstacles in the road--four and two-legged, and remember the moral to Aesop's tale that slow and steady wins the race. And, being old and slow, and not necessarily steady, I think this is a good motto for my driving excursions. However, I do not believe these attributes can ever be used in the same sentence with the word "race"...

Cats R Us

If you've been reading my blog lately (yes, all one or two of you), then you'll know that I am currently, as they say, "between residences". I'll be moving in to my own place at the end of this month, but meanwhile, I'm back at the ranch.

One of the other residents here--an orange and white, fluffy cat--is named Oscar. One of his favorite activities is running in front of you while you go up and down stairs (he obviously takes delight in seeing your bulging eyeballs, mouth agape, and hair standing on end [or three hairs in my case]). He sometimes does this little maneuver in dark hallways or rooms, but prefers testing your reactions where the danger quotient is highest. My reaction is nuclear and I play kick the cat. So far, I've made three goals--JB 3 and Oscar 0--and haven't found myself doing a carpet inspection...yet. Oscar also loves to walk on your head and face while you sleep. If you're wearing any kind of face cream or lip balm when you retire, you will wake up resembling the abominable snowperson. I believe this is Oscar's method for removing any loose fur he might have. It works...very well. I just wish I could figure out a way to keep the hair he deposits so generously on my head, on my head. I'm willing to look like an escapee from the musical, "Cats", just to catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror with a full head of hair (or fur). Finally, Mr. O likes to sleep under the bed (when he's not in a face-walking or stair-tripping mood). The first time I spotted him doing this, he was head under and body out. He never places himself completely under the bed when he naps there. There are always random body parts exposed to foot traffic, but he appears oblivious to the fact that, if he's trying to find a safe, snug, hidden place to sleep, he is only partly there. He's a little like the ostrich who places his head in the sand and assumes that he is now hidden from view. I like to be helpful. Always have. So when I see Oscaritch's bottom half sticking out, I help him out by side kicking him under the bed. Score! Fortunately for me, I don't think Oscar understands the concept of vengeful unless you count the fact that he ramps up the stair assaults the same day I play furry soccer with him.

Impatiently waiting...

I have moved from CA, where I had a DSL line, to Kentucky, where I am currently residing with my Sister and her husband. They live on 7 beautiful acres "out of town" with four dogs, six cats, one horse and whatever other fauna wander through their property--snakes, gophers, rats, lots of bugs--walking, flying and humming--and assorted other species. The downside (at least for me) of living here temporarily while I prepare to move in to my own place is that no satellite or cable communications are available--not enough people to feed the bottom line and too many trees to let the satellite signals get through. So, whenever I use the Internet I am (shall I risk saying this) on a dial-up line.

I am trying to be patient as I wait for things to "load". Text obviously is faster than anything photographic or complicated. I am learning to be creative with the time I spend waiting. Sometimes I take short naps, but I find that often my head hits the keyboard and sends commands that I never intended and, I have to redo whatever it was for which I was waiting ever so patiently.... Other times I re-arrange the furniture in the bedroom where I'm staying or paint the room, or give myself a pedicure. On a few occasions I read. I found that War and Peace is about the right length for a large download of photos.

So maybe all this wait time is a good thing. I am accomplishing a lot around the house and stimulating my brain which goes mushy if I just stare at the screen, watching that little blank "bar" at the bottom fill up with blue. I have also learned that the computer universe has a sense of humor. If I leave the room to use the bathroom or make a quick cell phone call, the blue bar fills up immediately in my absence and by the time I get back to my computer, I've been signed off because I took too long. Good-bye! If any military geniuses or police read this, I have a suggestion for them--want to torture prisoners? Break them down? Force a confession? Just make the alleged enemy or criminal use dial-up to access YouTube or the like and you'll get everything you want and more. I confess it would work for me....

Are we there yet?

Well, mentally and physically, perhaps we are where we wanted to end up--Kentucky, but my alter ego appears to have disappeared and my brain is only partly up and running. It could be the 2,400 miles I just drove to get to Louisville, or the monotony of the desert coming through parts of California, Arizona and New Mexico. I've seen enough scrub, sand and rocks to last a lifetime. I also got a speeding ticket in Texas--Thank You Lone Star State! Way to go! Cops are worried about speeders in a state that allows people to pack pistols without permits and shoot someone without blinking an eye if there is suspicion of infidelity. Hmmmmmm. What's wrong with this picture? My sister was my partner in crime during our trip. We weren't exactly Thelma and Louise and we didn't find any Brad Pitts--just a few rough looking guys without teeth or recent bathing--but it was fun despite the deserts, long drives during the day, spending mucho dinero on gasoline, and staying in a couple of very bad hotels along the way--one of them has taken the award for dirtiest, most raggedy and tackiest hotel in America!

We stopped in Vegas for two days to see a couple of shows--which were great--but the sleaze factor in that town is over the top and down the hill. Wow! That's all I can say about the lifestyle of the crowd there. Maybe it's the desert air. Maybe it's all those rocks and the heat of summer. And then again, maybe it's just a town that attracts the cave dwellers (apologies to the GEICO guys) and those who live under rocks.... Whatever it is, I'm glad I made my pilgrimmage there and I don't have to return. Seeing an Elvis impersonator that was better than the original was a highlight of the stay there. Viva Elvegas!!

Moving experiences...

It's been five days since I've read comments or written anything on my blog. It's not that I have such a thrilling life and that more interesting events have prevented me from doing so. Right now my life consists of cardboard boxes, tape and labels...and a huge fear that I will forget something, put it in the wrong box when it should be in my suitcase, or mislabel a box which means a panicked game of "treasure hunt" when I finally get to my destination. When I am trying to sleep, I dream (or think) about what is "left to do" and how to arrange the furniture and boxes in my moving container. I have to make sure items don't shift while en route--I wish I could figure out how to keep my body parts from shifting. Now that's an effort that I consider worthwhile. Perhaps I will devise a whole body suit made of spandex that will hold everything in place. The problems attendant to that are: (how do I put this delicately) 1) using the bathroom--old women, especially those who have had an hysterectomy no longer use the term "bladder control" because there isn't any. There is also very little warning when the bladder decides it is "time". Old lady runners have the best chance of "making it" to the bathroom in time. The rest of us are like one maneuver basketball players--all we know how to do is dribble. 2) Then there's trying to peel off the spandex suit when it's time to do anything else--especially on a hot day. Plans must be made. Help must be solicited. Gyrations abound! 3) Finally, there's the emotional upheaval when the "suit" is removed and, once again, gravity wins, hands down (and many other parts as well)! Shifting back to the moving experience--furniture and personal treasures, not my body--I can only give one piece of advice regarding this task: break or strain something and let your children, other family members and friends do the work for you, while you sit in a comfy chair giving orders and sipping a lemonade. Just keep an eye out for the closest bathroom...

Twice the fun...

Whenever I work on an art project, which requires close work and use of my eyeballs beyond their capacity to focus, I end up with double vision for about an hour. I have learned that driving until my eyeballs return to "focus" is not an option unless I want to test all the other motorists-on-the-road's adrenaline output. I have also found that seeing double does not necessarily increase the pleasure of such activities as watching TV--who wants to see two Britney Spears or Paris Hiltons? Heavens, I don't even want to see one. And, although I've always enjoyed Impressionist painting styles, having my vision go "Monet" on me is a little disconcerting. I have trumped vanity and now wear reading glasses when I do the close work, but I find that, when I put on my "close-up" glasses, it feels like the lenses are pulling my eyeballs slightly out of their sockets--another disconcerting feeling. So what's a myopic person supposed to do?

The answer to that compelling question is: wear the reading glasses and afterwards rest your eyes until they can focus properly and won't mistake a great Dane for a miniature horse, or a stopped car for a moving one. I also call this little post-art-work event a nap. I am always looking for excuses to take a nap. Now I have the perfect reason to snooze away. I feel a big art project coming on....

Procasternating what needs to be done...

I am currently involved in an effort to perfect the process of procrastination, and I find that I am excellent at it. It's so comforting to find something at which I am excellent--other than arranging my three hairs and often saying something stupid or out of place which requires an apology and community service hours.

I don't procrastinate everything. In fact, I don't procrastinate very often, but when I do, I want it to count for something, make a statement, drive everyone (and me) crazy as I try to warp-speed my way through whatever it was that I should have done earlier and didn't. For some reason, since my "retirement" from working (only temporary boys and girls), I have been slow to get up, get showered and get dressed. I don't know why I have chosen these particular daily events in my life to defer, but defer I do. I do get up. I do put on a loungey outfit. I do function and take care of lots of tasks and things on my To Do list, but I fight against keeping a routine-driven schedule by not showering until I need to do so (for an appointment or to run errands) or when my papier mache pig starts to complain or the plants I keep in the house begin to wither and swoon. I am sitting at my computer composing this blog post dressed in my sad, slightly tattered pink bathrobe and slippers with the hair on the left side of my head standing straight out as if it were a flag in a brisk wind. I will remain in this outfit until I have to clean up in an hour--I have an appointment that forces me to shower before Noon!

The downside of this new routine a la procrastination is answering my front door if someone knocks--the postal person, a friend, kids soliciting money for school events, etc. Sometimes I pretend not to be home. I stand very still in a place away from any windows, make no noise, and wait for whoever to go away. (I was always pretty good at playing "statue"--a childhood game--and all that youthful effort is paying off.) If I do open the door, I only open it a crack, because I don't want to be arrested for emotional assault and end up paying for someone's therapy for years. If it's someone I don't like or don't want to talk to, I boldly open the door, scare the Hades out of the "visitor" and watch him or her back pedal off my front porch. Ha! Take that, uninvited guest!! And, once again, I am left to my own devices, my smelly, disheveled body, and a hairdo that would make a rock star jealous.

So, if you are planning to come to my house any time soon, please call ahead, alert me and I'll make myself presentable...maybe, unless I'm in a procrastinating kind of mood.

Pardon me, but I plan not to get old...

Yep. That's my plan. I refuse to get old. When I start stumbling, my teeth come out, my eyes tear and I have to squint to read the BIG PRINT with my glasses on, my Supphose roll south without my permission, I start considering bathing and clean clothes as optional, and I am only modestly drooling, I am declaring myself dead!! I'll go find a nice cool place to sit and wait for the Grim Reaper (who names a kid that and expects anything positive to come of it?) to ask me to the dance. Of course, I might get scared, or bored, or hungry and wander off to find something to soothe me (chocolate), entertain me (American Idol Season 25), or feed me (more chocolate, please) and then the GR will show up and I won't be there and he'll get impatient and take off, find someone else to "grim" out of existence, and I'll come back to my little spot and be left waiting until I actually do expire. At least I won't end up wearing drool bibs to catch the saliva, adult diapers to catch other exiting "materials", wandering the halls of some facility, eating food that requires no teeth, no tastebuds and no swallowing, playing Bingo when I can't remember where I put my Bingo card and markers, thinking that another old person playing the piano badly and singing off-key with his dentures keeping time to the music is entertaining, and going on bus trips with a bunch of other old people just like me to places we'll never remember unless we do something humiliating and our facility friends who still have mental light bulbs that aren't flickering, remind us daily of the "event" that made the "Senior Citizen Gazette" front page. I'd like to bow out gracefully, and, if I can't manage that because my arthritis is acting up, I'll just walk into the sunset. Now which way is west?

Junkola and why you shouldn't keep any...

I am currently involved in the clean-out of my parents' home. They owned and lived it in for 54 years. Do you know how much junk, stuff, flotsam and jetsam, odds and ends, useless bits of nothingness you can accumulate in that amount of time? There aren't enough dumpsters in my hometown to accommodate the "special" things that my parents kept. Depression children learned to save EVERYTHING!!

My Dad loved keeping every bent nail, screw, nut, washer, bolt, odd tool, widget, etc. He was sure he'd need it someday, and occasionally there was a "someday" and he was able to put one of those saved "goodies" to good use. And that "someday" then became the mantra for why we should save everything. If a person could reach Nirvana by becoming a world class pack rat, then my Dad is somewhere in that mythical place right now (probably organizing the screws, nails, nuts, bolts and other similar items into very neat little containers) and he is happy as can be. He also loved visiting the dump. He could find all kinds of "potential" put-to-good-use things there. His original task of taking things to the dump to de-clutter always faded away once he drove through the gates of our city refuse depository. He always brought more home than he unloaded. Dad thought of the many projects he was going to do "someday" (also related to the someday when he'd use that itty-bitty odd screw he'd been saving for 25 years), and, if he was short of projects before he arrived, all that tossed away stuff was fodder for his imagination and he would think up dozens of new projects based on the "treasures" that other foolish people had thrown away.

My Mom accumulated clothes and things for the kitchen, and, later in life, when she was involved in some business and charitable organizations, she learned to save paper--mounds of it--and she kept it in multiple binders or plastic storage "envelopes". So I am finding paperwork from the 1980s through 2006, but I'm sending all of it to the garbage can. The way I figure it, if no one has asked for any of this stuff for all these years, it's probably not important to the life of the organization and the earth will continue to turn on its axis if it is thrown away. Does anyone remember the motto of the computer age--that we'd be a paperless society as soon as computers were in every home and business. Well, I think we have achieved that, but we seem to have way more paper than before we were paperless. We have to keep "hard" copies of what is on our computer in case we need to show it to someone who isn't close to a computer, or who doesn't own a computer (yes, there are still a few people who are in that dinosaur-walked-the-earth category), or to read at a meeting, or just in case our computer decides to turn into a comedian and crash on us taking everything with it. I am also trying to get rid of kitchen gadgets--the kinds of things we see featured on late night TV that everyone "just has to have" for $19.95 and, if you're among the first 100 callers, you'll get two items plus a combination skunk and grizzly bear repellent all for the same great price. There is guilt in throwing anything away even if you aren't a Depression era child. The quandry is trying to rationalize why any item that isn't worn out should be thrown out--"It's still good. Someone could probably use this. It will just fill up the land-fill that is already full. If I didn't already have 12 of these myself, I'd keep it." Clothing is even harder because there are memories attached to each article we or our family members have worn in the past. No one, well almost no one, looks at a meat thermometer and gets all misty-eyed thinking about the pot roast that was served the Christmas that Uncle Goony fell face first into the green Jello salad. But we remember places we wore a piece of clothing--a first date, a wedding, a baptism or christening, a special vacation--and throwing or giving away the clothing is like dispensing with the memory--"Enough of you. Take that! Be gone!"

So I guess I can't really blame my parents for keeping all the stuff they bought and all the stuff my Sister and I, our kids and our grandkids have sent over the years for all the holidays, birthdays, anniversaries, etc. We've added considerably to the stash of stuff no one really needed or even asked for. But, having spent the past two days preparing my Mom and Dad's house for sale, I am committing here and now to simplifying my life, getting rid of what I don't actually need or use, avoiding the purchase of items that aren't replacements for something worn out or totally broken and beyond duct tape (duct tape--another favorite Dad collectible), and never watching late night TV infommercials! I will repent of my sinful purchasing and hoarding habits today, just as soon as I take the Flo-Bee Hair Cutting apparatus out of the carton and find a spot in my crowded closet for it. Someday my kids will find it in my "treasure" trove and they will probably wonder what I was thinking and I'm betting one of them will wonder if they shouldn't keep it...just in case.

11 days since the last blast off!

It's hard to believe I haven't been blogblabbing for 11 days, but it's true. It's not that I haven't had something to say. I always have something to say. Most times it's just not that interesting, but I live alone and when the quiet gets too quiet, I fill it up with me--talking, running on about something, anything, stepping onto the soap box and preaching to the choir or anyone else who will listen. Oh heavens, I don't even care if anyone is listening anymore. I'm getting old, sailing into the sunset, and I'm not going quietly!!

Tonight's theme is "How Wierd Can I Be?" Answer: Very. Question: Who Cares? Answer: Who cares, who cares! Question: Do you think World Peace is possible? Answer: Only if no one in a beauty pageant is ever asked that question again. I know I'll feel more peaceable if that happens. Question: Why do old people seem to get wierd? Answer: Because we don't want anyone to forget about us, and, if all we do is sit around taking our teeth out and testing our blood sugar, we'll be forgettable. Question: What's the wierdest thing you've ever done? Answer: I haven't done the wierdest thing yet, but I'm thinking up a doozy. (Incidentally "doozy" is one of those old person words that make us seem wierd.) The End.

Never get old, and whatever you do, don't ever die...

Some of you readers (all two of you) might think this is a morbid topic, but, I can assure you that there is humor in the preparation needed prior to dying. First, make sure you have no assets, nothing anyone will want, nothing to leave behind. It makes everything for those left behind so much easier--no probate, no months in court, no lawyer fees, no haggling with siblings or other family members over Grandma's false teeth cup (or her teeth if there are dental issues with any of the not-dearly-departed), or her frumpy bathrobe and fuzzy, well-worn slippers, etc. If you die poor and without any debts, your remaining family and friends can just have a party and enjoy themselves and there won't be any rifts resulting from arguments over who got what and which grandkid was grandma's favorite--truth be known maybe she didn't like any of them but felt obligated to give gifts and act happy in their company.

However, if you have had even a modicum of success in life and have "stuff" and some money in the bank or some other financial institution, then there will be issues. If you don't have a trust, there will be the sound of "cha-ching" as the attorney works on the estate, and your heirs will hear that sound quite often as they spend time in courts trying to figure out whether they should pursue your assets or they should just save a lot of time and money by banging their heads on the nearest concrete block wall. Trying to change titles, make claims as beneficiaries, or anything else required to divvy up stuff becomes a full-time job and it is not for the faint of heart. I know because I have recently been dealing with my mother's newly established trust, in which my sister and I are trustees, hold powers-of-attorney for her financial interests as well as for her health care.

There is a theory that no two things can be in the same place (space), that that is physically impossible, but I dare to differ. Not only can two things (and by things I'm talking about procedures and paperwork) co-exist, they often are startlingly different. Say you need to go to the DMV to change the title of a vehicle from a parent's name (or names), and you carry your power-of-attorney with you so you can conduct "business", you will find that each clerk at the DMV has a different way of dealing with this procedure. And you will always have to "come back" at least twice before you can accomplish your task, and, no matter how hard you try, you will never get the same clerk, who appeared so helpful when you initiated this effort. You can let zillions of other DMV customers go ahead of you in hopes that your clerk will take care of you, but all you'll get is varicose veins while waiting and a grumpy clerk who will deny you access to the number one, helpful clerk. And, when you approach a bank to do anything, you will be likened to one of the poster children for "Most Wanted Fugitive" and will be treated accordingly. Banks will tell you that your power-of-attorney must be reviewed by their legal department before they will even consider accepting it and talking to you about anything more than the weather--this after waiting on the "platform" (what is this--a train station?) to speak to an officer, all of whom seem to go on vacation, eat lunch or take a break at exactly the same time. If the gods smile on you and your power-of-attorney is granted "acceptable" status, you will begin the long and arduous task of dealing with the bank to get all the account titles changed which will require your signing your name until your hand is permanently clumped into writing position. If you are a person who requires use of your writing hand for your livelihood, you will need re-training. And the list of items you need to do and the places you will need to go grows exponentially like a fungus out of control.

And so I return to my initial statement--never get old, and, if you need to die, don't tell anyone, hire a body double who can outlast your progeny or take leave of this earth with only dust bunnies and a toothpick to your name. You won't need them where you're going anyway...

Great expectations...

Charles Dickens wrote an excellent novel by this name. It's one of my favorites. His book is fiction, not real, even though there may be wisps of reality in the theme, the storyline and some of the characters. Reality tells me that for much of the human race, having great expectations means owning large bottles of Excederin, because, if your expectations are even modest that people will think and/or do the right thing, you have a lifetime of headaches coming your way.

I'm not a 100% cynic, or at least I won't admit that I am. I just know that people don't frequently turn to their gray matter, introduce themselves, get to know it, and then use it on a regular basis--say, once a week or more. Sometimes I wonder if most of us haven't been reincarnated and we were sheep in our former lives, or guppies, or newts, or amoebas, or...well, you get the picture. I'm still mostly an optimist, and I believe that people will think before speaking or acting and that they'll gather information, salient clues, turn to experienced individuals for advice, etc., before they forge ahead with whatever they are doing. But, mostly I'm still surprised by the lack of thought or effort given to any human endeavor.

Is it that we want someone just to tell us what to do or think and we don't want to get a mental hernia working through the decisions, the quandries, the dilemnas of life? Do we just want to be rote in our work, our play, our relationships? (Or worse, do we want them to resemble what we see on TV and at the movies?) We listen to political leaders (now that's a scary thought), to religious leaders (it can be a good thing if your religious leaders are solid citizens who have an understanding of humanities' needs and perils and aren't holding their hands out for donations to help them build a mega mansion or take a trip to some exotic port), to friends (hopefully, your friends will be like the lifeline types on "Who Wants to Be a Millionaire" and they will know more than you do), to psychics (change the ending by eliminating "ics" and adding "o" and recognize that these people at the other end of the telephone are getting paid to talk to you and have been trained to keep the conversation going for as long as possible to maximize the charges so their company gets money to pay them and still make a tidy profit), to aliens or pets (cats are aliens who have been brought here on the mothership, have been banished from their outerspace homes for being so aloof and demanding, and whose ultimate goal is to make humans feel inferior--they're very good at this and may well succeed), or the voices in our own heads (not a good sign). Our minds are heading in the direction of Miss Haversham in her bedraggled, cobwebbed, tattered and yellowed wedding gown...waiting for something to happen that never will unless we make it so. When Miss Haversham, or should I call her Ms. Haversham, first found herself alone at the "party", she should have put on her red dress, her dancing shoes and headed to the closest night spot for some major toe-tapping activity. Alas, she did not.

I guess the most important lesson in all of this is that naming a book "So-So Expectations", "Not-So-Great Expectations", "Pathetic Expectations", or "Lower Your Expectations" just wouldn't have taken the literary world by storm. And Dickens' other book titles would have suffered as well--"A Tale of a Couple of Towns", "David Zincfield", "Oliver Spiral", "A Holiday Tune" (that one at least is politically correct)...