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)...

Raindrops keep fallin' on my head...

and, with thin hair, it's a direct hit to the scalp. Of course, that means that my hair is clean and my scalp looks shiny. I've said this before, anyone who gets stranded in some forsaken spot with me will have a built-in "mirror" for signaling for help--the top of my head. We are certain to be rescued or burn a hole in the Van Allen Belt (not sure of the spelling on that one). Perhaps both.

Isn't it ironic that we start out life with wispy hair, a shiny noggin', no teeth, drooling volumes, round cheeks (on the face and on the posterior), fat thighs and a chubby tummy, and everyone thinks that it's cute. As we move into old age, we again find ourselves with all these physical attributes, but no one is smiling, telling us how cute we are and cheerfully wiping up the salivary spillage. Madison Avenue would have us believe that we have to stay trim, smart, fashionable, and that anything short of that is offensive to the world's sensibilities. Well, here's to offending the world. My hair is thinning. We've already discussed the alternative use of my head. My thighs aren't exactly thundering, but they definitely announce a change in the weather. My teeth are packing for a vacation. My cheeks and tummy are vying for the title, "Whose Balloon is Bigger". And I often wake up at night thinking I'm drowning, then discovering that I am a thimbleful of drool short of that fate. What goes around, comes around. Better put on your Wellingtons....

What it means to be a Honker...

Well, first, you must understand that my high school mascot was a Honker. (Stop laughing!) A Honker is a Canadian Goose. (You're laughing again. Please cease and desist!) I never knew there was anything odd about our mascot, even though all the other schools in our area or sports league had tough sounding mascot names--tigers, Indians, cougars, warriors, Vikings, etc.

It wasn't until I started college that I found the mention of Honkers was a source of laughter. Had I aspired to be a stand-up comedian, this would have been a great start to my comedy routine, but I was serious and then embarrassed by the reaction. I soon learned to hide the fact that my team was represented by a Canadian Goose, by avoiding answering the question whenever a bunch of my dorm mates or sorority sisters talked about their high school experiences. I found that spilling food or drink on myself (or exclaiming "Potty break!") gave me an excuse to leave "the area" until the discussion had turned to something I wouldn't find humiliating. No one in my group of friends ever made the connection between sloppy food handling or a small bladder and the discussion of high school mascots. Whew!

When I would return home to visit family or for a class reunion, I would be in good company and could say "Honker" all I wanted and no one would laugh.

I returned home four years ago to be here for my parents, who were elderly and had no other family nearby. It was a good move for a lot of reasons. One is that I had a chance to spend time with my father every day for the first two months--I was job hunting at that point and had ample "down" time to spend with him--and we talked about everything. I learned about his thoughts, his likes and dislikes, his aspirations, his disappointments, his opinions in more detail that I ever would have on a "vaction" trip home. I thoroughly enjoyed our evenings after dinner, sitting on the front porch listening to his stories, his memories, his philosophy of life. This two-month period had even more meaning when my father became ill shortly after I started work and was in a facility from that point until his death last year in March.

But another reason I am glad I came home for these four years is that I was able to reconnect with several of my "girlfriends" from high school. They were my friends then, and even though we weren't in continual contact over the last 42 years and only saw each other at reunions every five years, they were still my friends when I moved back to Yuba City (which I affectionately refer to as Honkertown). Over the past four years, we have lunched together every six weeks or so. We worked together on our 45th year reunion held this past October, and we still share more in common than not. When we get together, we are both teenagers in the 60s and moms and grandmoms in the year 2008. We care for each other as we care for aging parents who are afflicted with physical disease and mental deterioration. When we had lunch today, I told my friends that I was leaving YC soon, and the reaction was what I would expect from friends--their disappointment that I would no longer be part of the lunch club or the occasional dinner and a movie. And then the next reaction was "What can we do to help you with your move?" No hesitation. No caveat. Just offers of help, genuine ones. I knew I could count on my friends, my Honker friends the same way we counted on each other when we walked the corridors of our high school for the last time back in 1962 and bid each other good-bye as we headed off to college, off to work and off to what life offered. With my Yuba City friends, I don't have to hide who I really am. I can be a Honker and it's a good thing. And saying the mascot name out loud makes me smile, not because it's funny, but because it represents the best thing anyone can have in life--friends who love and care for each other. And isn't it interesting that the Canadian Goose is a bird know for its fidelity for life. This characteristic holds for my Honker friends too. So, while the cougars and the Vikings and the warriors and tigers are all fearsome. My high school mascot (funny as it was and is to some people) stands for something far beyond sports and high school and winning games. It means that, when the crowd stops cheering, the games are over and the high school hallways are empty, we will still hail to the "Brown and Gold" and continue to be there for each other, win, lose or draw.

What's brown and sweet and settling on my hips?

Okay. It's Valentine's Day, and I don't have a beau, a "special someone" (Wilbur, my papier mache pig does not count), or even a glimmer of romance in my life unless you think watching Sponge Bob Square Pants will substitute for finding Mr. Right. So, when a person doesn't have the warm and fuzzy things, she goes for the sweet and yummy things and that can only mean one thing--CHOCOLATE! Yep. Lots of it. Uh-huh. Mounds of the stuff. Yessireebob. As much as one human being can unwrap and eat in an evening without resembling one of the bratty children in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory....

So here's to all the chocolatiers in the world. I offer my profuse thanks. My lips thank you. My tummy thanks you, and my hips, that are widening as I type, thanks to all the chocolate I've eaten, thank you. The exercise equipment and self-help diet book industries also thank you over and over again. Their mantra after all big holidays, especially this chocolately one, is Ka-ching! Not quite the sound of cupid's arrow, but close....

What I want in my world...

First, I want logic and reason and kindness and no trotting down the ramp to the sheep dip with nary a thought bouncing about in one's ganglia. Second, I want perfect weather and I plan to steal it from San Diego (without the smog from the cars on the freeways that pass through and by that area). Third, I want all my friends who are logical, reasonable, kind, charitable, forgiving and funny (and who don't mingle with sheep, well, except for Mistress Mary)to be there. Fourth, I want all foods that are scrumptious to have no trans fats, no calories, no carbs, no cholesterol. Fifth, I want exercise to be a four-letter word--I guess that would be "xrsz" and forbidden. Sixth, I want a big store where everything costs nothing and the best, most flattering fashions are available whenever. Seventh, I want beautiful meadows and mountains and lakes and rivers, the oceans and the seas, deserts and valleys, and I want them to remain pristene forever and available to everyone to enjoy. Eighth, I want mornings and evenings to begin and end with prayer, gatherings of friends and family, retellings of the day's events, sharing triumphs and joys and sorrows and disappointments. Ninth, I want beautiful music everywhere to uplift and motivate everyone to do their best. Tenth, and finally, I want to eliminate the need for debates, competitions, negotiations, awards, accolades of men, rules to keep us in our places (substitute instead our own consciences that will allow us to always make good choices for the betterment of all), skirmishes or wars--of words or of soldiers--and to focus on what is good and what brings us joy. Oh, and everyone gets a beautiful home just the right size for his or her needs. I think they call this place Heaven. I know I would.

How super was Tuesday?

For some it wasn't such a super day--losses at the polls, decisions about whether to continue spending volumes of money, losing sleep, eating a lot of bad food at fund-raisers and to court voters at dinners and luncheons and BBQs, wondering why it is worth all the angst and the toll on friends and family, but then a picture of the White House pops into the brain and the desire to be a resident there, rent-free for at least four years takes over.

What also apparently has taken over the media and a sizable portion of the voters and general citizenry is prejudice, and not a subtle, hard-to-detect kind of prejudice, but one that has stepped out into the spotlight, proud and loud, declaring that a man who is well-qualified to be a president of these United States, a man who has led an exemplary life, who is devoted to his family, to his country, to good causes, who is successful as a political figure in an important and influential state, who, as a businessman, has founded businesses that are Harvard textbook successful, and who has turned companies and the Olympics around when everyone else was pulling out hairs and pointing fingers of blame, cannot be considered because of his religion. This man is studied and methodical and thoughtful. He is not without flaws or political quirks--what politician is, but he has been a front-runner throughout the campaign, declared his candidacy early on unlike several candidates who, like the marathon wannabe who waits at the final leg of the run to join the pack, waited until the waters and been tested and found "safe", and who is currently in second place as the Republican Party's presidential nominee. But to hear the media consultants both Republican and Democratic last night, Mitt Romney wasn't even being considered for VP. He was being summarily dismissed. Instead Mike Huckabee's name was touted as a definite best choice for that position. Based on what? Huckabee's winning record? His government or business triumphs? His decision to play the religion card when he had nothing else of merit with which he could criticize Romney and wanted to join other candidates and the media in the last licks campaign against Mr. Romney? Although I am not a Republican, if I were, I don't think I would be thrilled at the prospect of having any candidate in office who had such obvious prejudice against an individual because of his religion.

Freedom of religion is a cornerstone of this country's philosophy of how we conduct business--or at least it is touted as such when convenient for those who need their religious beliefs or non-beliefs honored. The wave of prejudice against Mitt Romney and, in essence, all members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints has been overwhelming, public and tolerated and even accepted as humorous and clever. It is none of those. It is homely. It should have no place in our conventions or our country. But, because Mr. Romney's church doesn't believe in getting into a fist fight over this issue, the media and political pundits have taken that stance as a signal for a free-for-all attack both personal and general against the church and its members. And Mitt Romney, who should be included on the short list for VP, isn't even in the realm of possibilities. All this because he has chosen to exercise a constitutional right--freedom of religion. For this choice, he will probably lose any opportunity to become the VP in 2008 and possibly a presidential candidate at any future time. But the loss isn't just Mr. Romney's. It is the whole country's. They may never know what it is to have a solid citizen, a loving and caring husband and father, a successful businessman, a thoughtful leader, and a deeply religious man, who practices what he preaches, as the leader of this nation.

Our nation has come so far in the past 232 years, is so powerful, possesses so many resources and has great influence throughout the world, and yet it is diminished by this treatment of one of its citizens. There should be an outcry among the population over this blatant prejudice regardless of whether ordinary men and women agree with Mitt Romney's political platform, want him as president or not. The treatment of Romney and his church should be labeled outrageous by anyone who considers liberty and freedom of conscience essential to a democratic nation, and, if we elect any candidate who supports, engenders, or rallies prejudicial thinking at this or any level, then everyone is at risk of being a target.

I believe that the media, the candidates who have postured against Mr. Romney's religion, and others who have jumped on the anti-Mormon bandwagon, have done so because they felt free to do so, because they felt no one would oppose them, or at least no one of any importance, because they felt that members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints were a minor sector of the American population, because they thought that no one would stand up for the church members or call those fomenting this religious prejudice to act responsibly, that they had a ticket to ride and no one would stop the train. And they were right. That is what is so wrong about this situation and why it should be a grave concern to all of us. And grave is the appropriate term to use, because prejudice in any form is deadly, and it appears that our country has developed serious symptoms of this condition over the past few decades that will slowly destroy the body politic.

I don't really need glasses...

unless, of course, I want to see things clearly. But then I think about the Impressionists. Everyone loves impressionist paintings. We think they're lovely and ethereal and painterly. So, when I don't wear my glasses, that means I see the world as did Claude Monet, Edgar Degas and company. Everything has a wispy, soft edge to it and colors are just a little subdued. Of course, Monsier Monet was not out driving a car with myopic vision, nor was he trying to recognize people in a crowded room or trying to find an empty seat in the movie theater after the lights go down (it is very embarrassing to sit on some stranger's lap thinking no one was there because your eyes can only see dark globulas which could be anything--an empty seat, for instance). It's not that I'm vain. I like my glasses. I think they're very classy looking, but I can't read with them on--they distort my close-up vision, and I don't need reading glasses yet. I don't like putting my glasses on for the far-away view and taking them off for the close view. They're already a bit loose from years of doing that, so that I have to practically glue the glasses onto my nose to keep them from falling off when I bend over. This is when I wished I had a Roman nose with that convenient little bump up near its bridge--perfect for keeping glasses in place!

I tried contact lenses for a few years, but I have a serious astigmatism (is there such a thing as a funny astigmatism?) and one eyeball is round and one is pretty flat. My left eye has a stronger prescription (and is the flat one), and from time to time, I would inadvertently touch my left eye, the contact would roll up and off my eyeball and I would panic trying to find it. Picture this. It's dark. I'm driving on the freeway at 65 mph, I rub my left eye without thinking about the consequences, my contact comes off, drops to my chest, I wink my left eye closed to avoid the distorted vision I now have with one lens in and one out, and I feel around on my chest for the missing contact. People also driving on the freeway, pass by me--I am at least smart enough to get into the slow lane--and they wonder what kind of pervert I am as I wink at them with my pathetically myopic left eye and grope myself.

So, no, I don't really need glasses unless I want to keep some semblance of dignity in my so-called life and so I can avoid public displays that could lead to the wearing of an orange jumpsuit and my 15 minutes of fame on the 11 o'clock news.