My State of the Union Hangover

Ah, the State of the Union: a parade of those elected hand-shakers and back-patters who dress for the cameras and clap reflexively until they recall their partisan stance.  Then they mug as appropriate to satisfy their national party.  So inorganic.  So American.

This year, the elected folks paired up in a bipartisan buddy system and sat together at the event to show the American people how comfortable they can be with members of another party, like how mom used to say that she had a "homosexual friend" and thus she could never qualify as a bigot.  A lovely effort, in any case, at least visually, as it limited the stark contrast created by the ovations of a single side of the chamber in support of the party's President and the grumpy seat warmers across the aisle.

If there's one thing I can say with absolute passion: Obama is one classy President.  If the hand-grabbing and back-patting has to happen, then I'm happy it's Obama cruising the circuit.  The man can work a crowd and bring an honest smile to the face of the most partisan objector to his presence in the White House.  I like him.  In my heart.  I do.  Obama makes inspirational calls for improvement and tells us how it can all be done.  And we get excited because we like that kind of optimism.  We love all that hope and potential.  Yes, we can!

Over the last two years, unfortunately, he's been met by the perilous downside of a vocal but undereducated electorate amplified by a profit-driven media machine.  You've heard the Mencken quote: "Democracy is the theory that the common people know what they want, and deserve to get it good and hard."  Ah, well.  Yes, we can unless it requires that we educate our children and pay taxes and perform stem-cell research and ensure universal access to health care.

The morning after an Obama speech is like waking up to an empty bed with a bilious hangover.  We remember that we didn't actually go home with the life of the party but actually some loser who bought us a drink and then took twenty bucks from our wallet to play darts.  The folks hired by the people to put the beautiful words into action are the dart-playing frat dudes and mean girls who would much rather make sure they get invited to the cool parties on campus than see to the kids working in the cafeteria.  Bummer.  All that eloquence is so quickly fouled by the general nincompoopery of the Congress.

I remember the old Bush days when the inability to articulate words in the English language at least matched Congressional incompetence.  Does this indicate progress or does the fact that so many people voted in so many under-qualified Republicans in the last election indicate a preference for the inarticulate?  Hmm.  I'm not going to answer that but I am going to give two thumbs up to Obama for delivering a good speech that should at least remind Americans that there are words in the English language other than bailout, job-killing and mama grizzly.

I can ride my bike to this place in New Zealand.  Yep.

One final note: the President said, "... as contentious and frustrating and messy as our democracy can sometimes be, I know there isn't a person here who would trade places with any other nation on Earth." Well, while not actually there in the chamber with him, I guess I'd like to raise my hand anyway to let the President know that he might be wrong on that point.  Because, personally, I think New Zealand is an awfully nice place to live.  And geez, has he not seen the rankings compiled by the United Nation Development Programme in 2010? In its report, the Real Wealth of Nations: Pathways to Human Development, the UNDP reviews criteria including life expectancy, literacy rates, school enrollment and the economy to rank the most livable nations in the world.  Looks like Norway and Australia are decent alternatives as well.  Just putting it out there.

Okay, now get out there and start hoping that even half of Obama's proposals for the year see the light of day!

The Wait for the Dog.

Five months and five days after we left her, she comes home.

For five long months, I've waited to see my dog.  She stayed behind in California while we moved on to find a good home, for ourselves, and really, for her.  Every house we considered was reviewed for benefits to the dog.  Every neighborhood, for its proximity to a dog run.

We settled in on the beach, not just for the views and and the incessant drone of the waves, but for the beckoning sandbox beyond our deck.  This would be her playground.

Today, the little dog is released from her 30-day confinement in quarantine.  We've visited with her often, at least twice a week but usually three, during that time.  In the first days, she was over-excited and confused to see us.  As time passed, she became hopeful that every visit was our last and that she would finally don her collar to depart.  She would sit patiently in front of the door during our visits, blocking our exit lest we forget what we came for.  Unfortunately, we had to explain to her uncomprehending, eternally devoted eyes, her sentence wasn't complete.  In the last week, I've fancied her new non-chalance as a resignation to her situation.  We arrive, she jumps and licks and tells us through wiggles and groans that she's okay but not totally satisfied with her digs.  She looks at the door and we say, "not yet."  And then she lets it go.  She heads onto her private, concrete patio to show us a toy, drink water, mutter at a bird hopping too close to the chainlink fence separating her from the best possible, but still inaccessible, world for her.  When we leave, she gets in bed and casts her dark eyes on us.  I read her disappointed compassion for us in them and I assure her that we've tried to be unselfish in this adventure, that she'll be happy at the beach, that we'll be together for the rest of her life, that she'll never have to sleep alone in a lonely, sparsely furnished kennel suite looking out on the hills and fields she'd love to romp.

Ah, but I know what she might think.  "Haven't I done this before?"

And that's when I commit, come what may, to staying on these islands.  Because, come what may, our dog shouldn't have to travel anymore.

Two more hours until they set her free.