Different doors

Sunday. It's the day that many people pass through the doors of their chosen church. That's good. Others choose not to go through doors at all. That is a personal choice, one that is none of my business, nor yours.

My doors are most likely different than yours, a choice that required years of conscious thought, searching and mind bending mental gymnastics. It was a difficult path but one that has ultimately brought peace of mind and comfort with who I am and what I believe. I took this journey alone, influenced by no one. No one.

My place right now has brought some interesting comments from others. One of the recurring themes that I hear is that those who question the idea of a Supreme Being have no direction, no values, no sense of morals. Honest, I have heard that. More than once. The first time it was like a hard slap in the face. Now it merely stings and after a day or so the hurt goes away.

No, that's a lie. The hurt doesn't go away. But it's not as shocking as it was the first time I heard it.

I don't do Sundays the same way you do. Often I choose not to go through any doors at all and instead enjoy the beauty of nature. I listen to the frogs in the pond, stare at the mountains and breathe the fresh air. Sometimes weeds get pulled or the car gets a needed washing. I think, sweat and try to work out whatever dilemma is currently at the top of my list. It is my favorite day of the week.

I do try to live a moral and ethical life. And yes, that is possible to do without going through the same doors that you do. And who knows? I might find even different doors to explore in the future.

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(Littlest found a $5 bill yesterday! She's four. Watch out MoneyWalker, the competition is coming!)

My Naughty Neurons

These two medications are necessary for my body to function reasonably well on a daily basis. One of them keeps me from suffering the pain of GERD. The other one keeps my brain neurons firing in the proper order without the ill effects of bone loss, memory loss and liver or kidney failure. The two tablets are taken religiously morning and night. I know all too well the consequences of forgetting them or simply deciding that I don't need them any longer.

Omeprazole is the generic name for Prilosec. For many years Zeus and I have crossed the border of AZ into Mexico as often as possible to buy this medication because the cost is about one-fourth of what would be paid in the USA. Same ingredients, same medicinal benefits, different country and label. No expensive doctor visit/copayment required to get a prescription. (Yes, I know it is OTC now but when I started it wasn't.)

The other medication, the one that I must take if I want to maintain a driver's license or remember the vacation to San Diego is mailed to my home every three months. In Canada you can buy the same pills for $115 per 50 tablets. At Costco in the USA it is listed at $210 per 50.

I'm lucky. Each month Zeus lovingly writes out a check to pay for my Cobra health insurance plan. The cost is outrageous and is probably enough to make a new car payment. We are both grateful that I am covered and that those nasty-tasting pills prevent my unpredictable neurons from staging an entertaining fireworks display.

At the other end of the spectrum is a close friend of ours who needs a similar medication as mine. He has no insurance. The OTC cost prohibits him from getting the help that he desperately needs to live a full life.

I'm very frustrated today. Once again I am disappointed in the failure of many to see the larger picture. Why shouldn't every person have access to health care? Why is the United States so damn far behind other countries in this regard? Why are people so eager to feed off the system whenever it is to their own benefit but refuse to help those less fortunate?

In 2020 I hope that the miracle drugs that I take will allow me to remember that FINALLY, something was done that should have been done many years ago.

For all of you who don't approve of this post, read THIS.

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PS. Jim Mattheson, I have no words for you today. At least that I can write here.

Double your freshness, double your fun...NOT!

Note: I had a different post all ready to go up this morning. Instead, I will be posting a rant and will save the gentle one for the future.

Last week I got some pretty new shoes. Unlike many around me, shopping for shoes (or any clothing for that matter) is an unpleasant experience. But running and ralking shoes are the one item of apparel that I take seriously. In fact, my running shoe specialist didn't have my size in stock so I'm waiting, impatiently, for the call saying they have arrived. (That's another rant for another day.)


Back to the original rant. I was able to get my everyday ralking shoes last week and am still enjoying how sparkly white they are. Twenty minutes ago I walked in the house and my brand-spanking new shoes were suddenly making a weird sound with each fall of my left foot on the tile floor.

Damn it! There was a big wad of GUM on the sole. Two more steps and that crap would have been ground into my carpet!


All grandchildren know that before entering my house there is a mandatory security checkpoint that they must go through. Mouths are opened and swabbed for any signs of bubblegum, breath-freshening gum or just plain old Doublemint Gum. If found, the offender is pointed in the direction of the garbage can and must listen to my anti-chewing speech for a minimum of five minutes before being released. Tears and complaints of how new the gum is fall on deaf ears.

I once was a compulsive gum-chewer. Oh yes, I could pop that gum both inside and outside of my mouth for hours on end. As a child I remember getting more than one haircut because it fell out of my mouth while asleep. That old pink Bubble Yum probably contributed to the mouthful of dental fillings that decorate my teeth.

When I am out ralking and numismatising the globs of gum that dot the asphalt is disgusting. Gum chewers have no qualms about sticking their used-up wads in public places. Drive-through windows are particularly notable for this as are telephone booths and handrails. And for heavens sakes, never, NEVER feel the underside of a restaurant table.

I won't even start on the grossness of some open-mouth chewers. Mirrors, anyone?

Rant over. I will now go to the garage to carve the glob of sugar-gumbase-cornsyrup-natural and artificial flavors-glycerol-aspartame-soy lecitin-asulfamaneK-mixed with saliva from a stranger out of my brand new shoes.

UGH!!!

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Guilty pleasures

They are known as MWAC (Mom with a Camera). Or AWAC (Amateurs with a Camera). In our very small town there are 35 businesses listed as "Photography". THIRTYFIVE! This last week I took a 6 hour class in which I learned that our wonderful state of Utah is the second from the bottom in the likelihood to succeed as a professional photographer. Soon it is expected to be at the bottom.

I've always loved taking photographs and sharing them with others. I remember clearly snapping a 35mm frame of Jubee playing with some balloons when she was just a toddler. It came out blurry and I was terribly disappointed. The lab tech kindly explained that my nice point-and-shoot camera would not focus at a close distance. About five years ago I sweet-talked Zeus into getting my first DSLR. I was hooked from the first time I held that massive Nikon in my hands and started shooting everything I could. That camera has since been upgraded and additional equipment has gradually been acquired that allows wider experiences in my chosen hobby.

The questions have been swirling in my head for quite some time. I have long considered myself to be an amateur/hobbyist and have had no desire to take that next step to professional. There are many reasons for this, the biggest being that I don't want my playtime to become a job. There is plenty of self-imposed stress involved at my current level without having to worry about deadlines, legal issues, taxes, advertising, etc. etc. etc. I never want to replace the unlimited enjoyment with a 40 (or more) hour work week.

So why the guilt trip? Several times and in various forums I have heard professional photographers express contempt for amateur photographers. It seems that MWACs and AWACs have deeply cut into the pros' earnings potential. Most are struggling with lagging incomes and fewer clients. Equipment, insurance and other business expenses quickly eat up any profits that might come their way. The Internet has made it possible to share images with distant loved ones, no need for prints. The once-lucrative photography profession has taken a hit in the pocketbook by rapidly changing technology.

With the advancement of digital cameras and the ever-improving computer technology even a first-grader has the ability to produce nice photographs. On the flip side, I have invested countless hours in classrooms, books, research and practice to get to where I am currently. As I blogged recently, there is so much more to learn.

Finally, I have come to terms. I am comfortable with my position. I am a GWAC. And I do not feel guilty.

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(The camera once belonged to my father in the late 40's. It took wonderful candid photos of my parents and probably would still work if I could find film for it.)

Immigration

Organ Pipe National Monument is located between the town of Why, AZ and the Mexican-American border. For a number of years it was the only thing that separated our back door from the imaginary dividing line between two countries. It was not unusual for us to cross that line to shop for groceries, medications, furniture or simply to go for a good plate of Chiles Rellenos.

Yesterday that crossing was impossible. Our passports sit in a file back home. They are now required to get lunch. Border patrol agents are everywhere spreading their sometimes overbearing attitude which often leaves much to be desired. And that fence, that awful fence.

Twenty feet away from the imposing eyesore while I was grabbing a few photos I came across a large brittlebush. Due to the very low rainfall here it was the only thing around in bloom. Hundreds of bees were buzzing around it. Monarch butterflies were everywhere. They didn't need passports or permission from armed, uniformed officers for the annual migration south to their winter homes. They simply filled up on pollen and flew over the top of the metal barrier and rifles.


We are also within miles of many different Indian Reservations. Mexican and Native American culture is everywhere. In many ways we are the outsiders.

Happy Thanksgiving to everyone. Today I am reminded that we are all immigrants.

Felines

I know before I even type one word that this is a very risky post. Some of you may be offended and for that I am deeply sorry. Gonna do it anyway.

Cats are not my favorite animal. They are temperamental, moody, aloof and hairy. If they are indoor cats they can often be found in many places that they don't belong. If they are outdoor cats they are chasing birds or pooping in the neighbor's garden. OH YES, THEY ARE!!!

Last night as I left Ms. Dub's house "Kitten" was nice and comfy on the hood of my car. Obviously, no one had warned this cat about who he was dealing with because he refused to budge, even after multiple camera flashes and the engine starting. Nope, he taunted me by sauntering right up the windshield and perching his hairy kitty butt on top of the car. No physical harm came to the cat as he was removed and placed behind the rear tire... ummm, I mean on the sidewalk.

Cat lovers, commence flaming.

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