“I’m letting you know right now that I won’t share this.” These are my words to my husband every time a box or bowl of popcorn is in my vicinity.

We almost always share dinner entrees in restaurants and many lunches as well. In fact, we share most everything in life without rancor or arguments.

But popcorn is my nemesis, my Achille’s heel, and my favorite snack. And I know I cannot be gracious and rational if buttered popcorn is in range. My husband has to get his own or fight for every kernel of mine.

Since childhood, I have been smitten with popcorn, always choosing it over cake or a sundae. Countless allowances were spent at our downtown five and dime, an establishment known for its freshly popped, greasy popcorn.

How anyone could choose Raisenettes or Milk Duds at the movies is unfathomable to me. But I fully understand how the nightmare of supersizing in America began with a marketing ploy at the movies. Marketers figured out that people felt guilty about buying two boxes of popcorn but would fork over lots of cash to buy one box……one enormous box that was bigger than two normal size ones put together.

I am also a popcorn purist. The first time I tried kettle corn I was aghast. Popcorn should not be sprayed with sugar. Popcorn, butter and salt are the only necessary ingredients.

One time my aunt in Albuquerque sent me to a popcorn store with instructions to buy big tins of popcorn as Christmas gifts for her caregivers. The shop looked like a rainbow had exploded on the premises. Bins of neon colored popcorn lined the walls of the tiny store. More flavors were offered than at a Baskin Robbins. Needless to say, I did not buy blueberry, cinnamon, green apple, licorice or any other of the adulterated versions of popcorn. I bought her employees the real thing. Some things in life can’t be compromised.

Glitter and glitz are sprinkling down unchecked in America at the moment. And all that glitters is decidedly not gold…..it’s Chinese made glitter, sequins and faux jewels.

In every grade school classroom I visit, the majority of little girls are decked out in glittery, bejeweled teeshirts. Many of these shirts proclaim the wearer to be a princess. The poorer the school district, the more glittery the girls. I wish the sparkle could be in these children’s eyes as opposed to their chests.

Plants are not immune to the glitter craze, either. A huge display of Christmas poinsettias dyed purple and blue and profusely sprayed in glitter greets me every time I’m in the produce department of my grocery store. I’m guessing that Mother Nature is not pleased with these “improvements” on her creations.

Jewelry that seeks to replicate the size and carat count of the royal jewels routinely fills the jewelry cases in stores like Target now. While picking up a prescription and some toothpaste, I can also equip myself for a coronation or Cinderella’s ball.

I did not expect to find bling, however, at a Chicago highway oasis. But as I walked in to buy a cup of coffee, I was greeted with a shop overflowing with oversized  jewelry covered in gaudy fake jewels. Apparently among a traveler’s need for caffeine, fast food, pretzels, cinnamon buns and bathrooms, we have added a jewelry fix. Can jewelry drive thru windows be far behind?

I fear that Americans are secretly yearning to have a jewel encrusted monarchy and are regretting a decision made in 1776 to try an experiment in democracy. Or perhaps we all just want to be kings and queens.

Pulling into the car wash the other day, I was behind an Armada. No, not a fleet of mercenary Spanish warships, this Armada was a towering vehicle with one occupant.

The Armada had the super, deluxe, extra car wash which meant that I had plenty of time to think about the names car models are given, names which pander to our various desires. None of these desires are even remotely automotive.

For those seeking to dazzle the world with their wealth and exclusivity, the industry offers the Regal, Enclave, Legacy, Impreza and Escalade. The later, no doubt, helps the buyer escalate to even higher levels of status.

The auto makers also market to environmentalists. Tree huggers get vehicles with short, often literal names. So head for a Spark, Volt, Cube or Leaf if you are feeling green.

Folks who have an inner cowboy or John Wayne complex are in luck as well.  They can take their pick from the Colorado, Tucson, Santa Fe, Tahoe or Sedona. These metal beasts are perfect for hauling home a few steers from the local grocery store.

My husband comes from a Ford loving family and we have had our share of Henry’s cars. The Ford marketers try to brand their customers by throwing a flurry of “F’s” around…….Flex, Fiesta, Festiva, Focus, Fusion, Fairlane and Falcon. Note that I did not marry my husband because he was driving a white Fairlane convertible the night I meet him.

Our personal car history also includes my husband’s two most beautiful cars with the two most idiotic names, a Chevy Beretta and a Ford Probe.

I drive Rabbits, Accents and cars with small numbers like my Mazda 323. These are practical, unassuming cars with absolutely no cachet. Everything preys on a rabbit.

I’ve saved my all time favorite ridiculous car name for last. The first time I was driving behind a car that proclaimed itself to be a Juke, I blurted out to my husband, “How could anyone be paid a jillion dollars to come up with a name that rhymes with “puke”?

I’ve run into hundreds of turkeys this past week. Fortunately for the turkeys and me, these birds are made out of construction paper, glue, paint, and in wealthier schools, dyed chicken feathers. Parading up and down school halls, the Toms remind the kids of our unique American Thanksgiving holiday.

Writings on thankfulness often accompany these artistic creations. Prompted by their teachers, the kids usually start with parents and siblings at the top of their lists, although some family members get usurped by dogs and cats. A new twist this year was turkeys with red, white and blue tail feathers with writing about America.

A radical idea popped into my head the other day. What if the upper grades were all asked to write a second essay on greediness? Being greedy is the opposite of being thankful, and a spirited discussion on greed and its consequences could begin the assignment. This exercise would certainly fulfill the current educational mania to get kids to “think critically”.

Unfortunately, my idea is not politically correct in our consumer society. Every cultural guidepost tells young people (and us) to consume as much as we can as quickly as possible. Black Friday shopping has morphed into Black Thursday and eclipsed the day set aside for thanks. Many sleepy children will be in those frenzied crowds on Thursday  night and the wee small hours of Friday morning. Other children will be home in their beds, but their parents will be jostling each other to buy piles of the newest Chinese made toys whose longevity and play value are nil.

I always get a small ray of  hope when I see a car with a bumper sticker proclaiming “Hate is not a family value”. Perhaps we need a companion sticker declaring, “Greed isn’t either.” And a cautionary note to those shoppers who applaud stores who purport to think of their employees and close on Thanksgiving. Coming in to work at 11 or midnight on Thanksgiving night and then working until dawn or later often counts as “closed on Thanksgiving”. Any woman who cooks a feast, cleans up the mess and works through the night at a big box store may not consider this as a day off.

Almost all of us probably harbor some mild phobias…..fear of snakes, spiders, bats, large crowds, enclosed spaces, heights. The renowned biologist, Edward O. Wilson, notes that these phobias are shared by all cultures and can be traced back to times when prehumans lived outside in tribes. Encounters with wild animals and enemy tribes were frequent and “it was safest to learn fast, remember the event long and vividly, and act decisively without involving any rational thought.”

We are still hard wired to do exactly that, even though we no longer spend all our waking hours in the woods hunting and gathering. Consider this ironic example. Dr. Wilson is one of the world’s leading entomologists, the Honorary Curator of Entomology at Harvard, yet this bug guy admits to being “a mild arachnophobe.” He confesses that he will not touch large spiders in their webs.

I am an arachnophile. These creatures amazing ability to create seven different types of silk and weave intricate webs fascinates me. When a spider in our house needs relocating, I willingly volunteer for the task. And handling spiders and snakes when I taught children’s classes at the zoo presented no problems.

But I do have a phobia. Chickens. The zoo once asked me to feature a chicken in one of my classes. I immediately asked to be instructed in chicken wrangling techniques. I was given a fifteen minute lesson which left me pitifully unprepared. Fortunately, my volunteer helper for the class was a no nonsense retired schoolteacher and former farm girl from the U.P. I explained my plight to her. She had no chicken phobias whatsoever and happily volunteered.

The chicken was brought to the classroom from the zoo farm in a cat carrier. My wonderful helper opened the carrier and pulled out one extremely angry bird who started pecking, clawing and flapping simultaneously. With one miraculous maneuver, this expert let that chicken know who was boss.

Someday, I would like to overcome my chicken phobia. But for the moment, I’m content to buy my eggs from the grocery store.