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Sunflower's Blog |
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I am Sunflower, and this is my blog--for what it's worth. The philosophical beachbum journals to public. |
| The network news broke in to my favorite afternoon showing of Jeopardy, to prepare the nation for the verdict. During the news explanations before the clerk read the verdict, I did some "what if?" thinking for Michael and our nation. Would the public outcry exceed that of OJ Simpson or Rodney King? What would the bystanding fans do? Throw things, or weep? If Michael had seen the last of daylight shining on his shoulders, would he have regretted spending so little time in the sun? What would become of Neverland? What price must the poor boy pay for the situation God has led him into through his very public life? Will he change his ways, and spend less time with sick and dying children? And what of Blanket? Is it against the law to be different, or is it a sin, or perhaps neither? At any rate, I'm glad for him it's all over, and he's been deliberated fully and found not guilty of legal wrongdoing. He looks so pale and frail. For all our human foibles, God bless Michael Jackson. |
| I live about 15 minutes from my Mom's house in Dallas, and we both want me to live closer to her. We don't think we'd do well in the same house. She'll be 83 in another month, and we both like our independence. The house two doors down from her's is up for lease. We are going to see the inside at 1:00 tomorrow afternoon. We've been through this "me almost moving" at least a half a dozen times. I've been in my place about six years, and I really like it. But to be closer to Mom, I'd give up the garden and the attached garage. I'm going to spend the might at her house tonight because she needs a ride to her epidural shot at 9:00 in the morning. It would be so much more convenient, and I'd be closer if, and eventually when she needs me. I worry about her staying by herself, even though we talk on the phone every day. If I'm two doors down, she can keep a better eye on me. I don't think I have any secrets any more that would shock her. Keep me living honest. She sounds like it's going to happen this time. My adenalin isn't pumping about it yet. I remember though, I always seem to move in the heat of August. Every day is a new horizon. |
| I've spent the better part of this Saturday evening brushing my pets. I have four. I'm not usually able to get them all in the same day, though I try to get each at least once a week. The two cats aren't the problem to brush that the two big dogs are. A cat is a compact animal, as my experience goes. I studied veterinary technology in college, and we worked with cows and horses, and snakes, and birds, and iguanas, and other now domesticated animals. I trimmed a parrot's feather's once. I enjoy getting on a personal basis with the critter. I find it personally satifying to be allowed into an animal's personal space. My German Shepherd is two-years old, mostly black, with some tan and blonde around her face and tail. She's the "little baby girl dog" of the family, and I tell her all the time. It's like an endearment between us. Having my first German Shepherd has proven a learning experience. I still haven't explored the breed on the Internet. But I know she's smart. She finds me first when we play hide and seek. At this point you're probably saying, "Is this a kid or a nut?" I'm a grown up kid who likes to play with her pets like she's still a little girl. We have a few games--like chew up the cardboard milk carton. She loves to tear things to pieces. Maybe she's practicing tearing flesh, because she's a barker and very protective of me. She's the lighter of the two dogs, weighing about 55 pounds. After brushing "Shadow," I was able to catch the outside kitty, who answers to the name of "Emily." She was named for Emily Dickinson, of course. She's mostly grey with white chest markings. Her hair texture is so soft and fuzzy. She prefers being outside to chase birds and her feline cohorts she invites over. The dogs don't like her friends at all. "Big Bad John" is a gentle giant. At 95 pounds, his blonde Labrador/Shepherd hair can look silky--like when he's just brushed. I tell him he's handsome when it's all over with. All my pets love being groomed by me. It's a kind of non-language communication, especially when you look in their eyes. There's got to be lots of karma to be had from brushing a pet. "John" takes a long time to brush in entirity. When I'm finished (in the shedding season), I get enough hair to stuff a decorator pillow. As big as he is, "John's" sensitive in the summer heat, and starts scratching and biting. Those slurping sounds of dog licking drive me crazy. This brushing will help that. Every critter in my house was brushed from their nose to the tip of their tail today. I hope that cuts down on the hair shedding that's happening in my house now. I brush, I vacuum, and I give my big dogs a down-on-the-floor hug and roll about to celebrate. Dog floor parties are great for building up your karma. There's no one so loyal as your dog. |
| I dread shopping at Walmart. I've overcome my negative feelings shopping at the Neighborhood Walmart store. I do that frequently. It's the BIG Walmart I dread going to. So many aisles. The store will have been reorganized since I was last there, so I'll have to look around, rather than direct down the aisle--in and out--which is safer for me. I get distracted and buy more. I get agoraphobia sometimes. In my case, it's a fear of being stuck in a long, long, long line, in a huge store, where the majority of people are speaking a language other than my own. The lines are slow. The jillions of children are unruly. As a former teacher, I'm always tempted to discipline. I have eyes that'll scare the crap out of little kids. But I usually don't. The political problems that I have with Walmart are twofold: The meat union, and the infusion of Chinese labor practices into my life. Meat at Dallas Walmarts is cut and packaged off premises because Walmart wouldn't work with the meat union. Damn pushy of them. Unions look out for people. They just step right across a picket line that doesn't even know it's supposed to be there. A sacker at Kroger told me what good meat prices he found at Walmart, and I had to educate him about sticking together for the good of the fold. I don't think he got it. Bottom line savings. If you get a chance to catch the cable show "The Making of Walmart," It's full of very interesting information. Walmart is expanding to other countries, and learning that cultures can't be overcome. You adapt to market. Lots of rice and fresh fish in the Walmarts in Asia. And the Asian employees wear uniforms and do store cheers in English. It all seemed very strange. They interviewed a Pakistani owner of a doll maker who was using Chinese labor. We all know that the Chinese don't have decent human rights as the government stands now, and buying that sort of product only enforces the need to not change their governmental system. Keep the people oppressed. We don't care about the other side of the world, unless it's got oil in the dirt. We buy more, at cheaper prices, but across the world, doll makers who string hair, and stitch tiny stitches, aren't getting minimum wage or health benefits. China, I see, as a Nineteenth Century Industrial Revolution type labor pool. The people are downtrodden for the benefit of the product. I could rant on, but won't. Bottom line is that Walmart, in having cheapest prices, is the magnet for my pocketbook. I have not enough money. Money goes father at Walmart. So I shall venture forth. . . after a stop at Petsmart--which is another blog. |
| This is the thrid year I was aware of the Writer's Digest Annual Contest, and I finally finished and submitted a short story, as well as a poem. Having a 32 line poem to submit wasn't a problem, because I have quite an accumulation by keeping everything on line here. The problem was that they wanted a poem that hadn't been published. I had all my best poems published by poetry.com, or another vanity outfit, so technically I don't think they were fare game to submit. Since vanity publishing has such a bad rep, once you know what it is, I don't think Writer's Digest would have a problem with accepting one they published. I think I found one that hadn't been stained by vanity. I submitted "Never on a Sunday," because I don't have it in print myself. FamousPoets.com was supposed to publish it, but I never got a copy. Something to chase down--sometime. I was two years working on the short story. It was a chapter in a working novel. The word count had a 4000 limit. My story had 3922 words. I had to keep cutting, which made the story tighter. I can never tell how long it's going to take to edit. I printed to edit four times, using a pencit on double spaced print. It's twenty pages. I spent nine days of full time work editing, when I thought it would just take one more going over. One day before the late deadline, I left my manuscript with the post office, at 4:30 in the afternoon. I don't function at my peak unless I think it's the last minute. But, I finally did it. The manuscript for "A Teacher's Mirage" is as tight as I could get it. I need to copy and paste the final draft back onto the Internet. I don't think the story is strong enough to be a #1 winner, but I really hope to get a top 100 certificate. Getting it finally together, to send in for consideration, feels good. Whatever happens, I did it! And, I can do it again!!! |
| My nights are days and days are nights. I've got my biological clock askew. It's okay though. I'm presently crammin to get my short story entry edited for the annual Writer's Digest contest. I hate the story by now. Parts of it keep going on in my head, or maybe I just re-read a page. . . but, then, I work best under pressure. The best part of this is taking my editing papers to IHOP to have coffee and pancakes in the middle of the night. Got to get back to editing. . . . |
| I went to the beginning of summer annual bar-be-cue in my mom's residential neighborhood. She enjoys affairs like that. I suppose it reminds her of the good old days. She only knew half a dozen people there. There were 20 kids and 90 adults that RSVPed for the event, according to Gretchen, neighborhood representative for everything. People brought their own lawn chairs, and the caterer neighbor set up the grill and the corney dog oil vat in the middle of the street. Tables of beans and potato salad and home made cookies were set on tables in the street. The eats are usually good. Extra good meat this year. The half-block they had portioned off for this party included one of those bouncey blown-up box cages for the kids. I enjoyed watching a few 5 year olds for awhile. I miss that freedom of body that a child has. We sat with Diantha and Ed, neighbors from down the street. He's about 70, and always jokes around. As we were leaving, he had Diantha's camera hidden in his hand, and he pointed to his cheek with the other hand and asked my mom to give him a kiss. As she did, Ed snapped a picture and the flash surprised her. My mom laughed, "You're not going to show that picture to your wife!" Ed's the type that always leaves an impression. What a card! In the shade under tall trees, with a subtle breeze, it did feel like 99 degrees, which it was. Damn hot. Texas. Good times anyhow. |
| It has already become summer Dallas pollution time. When the air doesn't move through this urban island, the pollution really does get thick. I give people spouting black oil puffs the old "evil eye." Gave one to an 18 wheeler Dr. Pepper truck that looked like he was leaving a stream of jet fuel just yesterday. He didn't see me, of course. It ain't right. It's not just that cars pollute, and get fewer miles per gallon than possible. Gas is $2.02 in my neighborhood in Texas this weekend. I can almost start breathing regularly when the gas prices come down a bit. I saw the damage big industries inflict on the environment during the time I lived in South Texas. There were acres and arces of trees, turned black and decaying because of the refinery smoke in the area. I think George Bush and his elected comrads ought to go after industrial offenders. Big business could do better if they had to. I think President Bush is making a mistake by burrowing and drilling oil in our northern lands. That one of the remaining, rather pristine, environments is being laid bare for the humanity to which I belong, makes me ashamed for us. I don't personally rate my need for gasoline higher than letting the Arctic creatures live, remain as they always have. Deciding between the correct and incorrect use of our lands shouldn't be a political venue, ripe for the whipping. Hybrid cars are available, and are getting better all the time. I try to make choices that don't harn my world. We all could probably do better, if we thought about it. |
| In sorting out information at my pharmacy today. I realize how international my world of health care is. My new internal medicine doctor is a first generation American, his parents having come from India before he was born. I really had to squeeze some brain cells to come up with his first name for the pharmacist to verify which physician in Dallas he was. By the time she came up with the address on Gaston, I remembered "Pratik." I could remember he graduated from Highland Park High School here in town before I could remember his first name. Anyhow, thanks to his parents coming to the United States when they did. I lost my family doctor of almost 20 years recently. He didn't retire. He died. Lyme disease took him at 57. I always thought of him as an older brother. It was such a shock, as well as a bump in the road of my health care. My mother's internal medicine doctor's practice just added Dr. Kapadia to their practice. I feel special being able to start with a doctor that in the family's health circle, and new to the problems that can happen at Baylor. Dr. Kapadia's very--well, I can see the kind of student he was in school. I like him, and I still mourn the passage of a relatively young healer. I have an article half written about the former Dr. Sterling Walton that I will post eventually. I hope to be able to talk to his wife, after some time passes. The other international doctor I have claim to is a Russian psychiatrist. My previous Indian psychiatirst went on to treat the mentally retarded. After about two years of doctor hopping, I've run across a doctor in my insurance healthcare network that I feel comfortable with. It doesn't strike me as strage that I'd like a Russian. As a former teacher of English as a Second Language, I enjoy the variation in vocabulary. Also, if I don't understand what I'm being told, I will ask until they say it so that I know what they mean. Some fall to the side in the test, like my short-term Russian physical therapist. I saw her twice. The second session we were in a private room, and I was sitting on the table. She said "Get on the floor." Wanting to be the dutiful patient, I got on the floor. I got off the table, and sat down on the floor. She was aghast! She thought I was fainting. She got SO excited, and I was embarrassed because she was so upset. It wasn't a big deal, but it was a big deal. Consequently, I went to another physical therapist. Dallas has lots of options. So now the man I tell my moody-bipolar problems to, answers me with the accent familiar in the Boris and Natasha cartoon. His name is Vladislov Yagenov (don't hold me to the spelling). I can't tell how old he is. His hair is solid black. He wears a gold band on the middle finger of his left hand. I was looking upside down, but I swear it was the middle finger. This is something all unmarried American females check. Plus, he's kinda cute. He prounced me looking better than my visit with him about two weeks ago. He said, "No, is not hair cut," when I pointed out an obvious difference. We can communicate. That's what's important. So with my Indian internist, and Russian psychiatrist, I am truly grateful for those people who manage to get in to the United States these days. Not all immigrants swin across the Rio Grande River. That's a completely different matter. |
| Everyone develops their own personal relationship with their personal computer, printer, and other hardware. We expect it to work. When the printer is down, it like a company employee has walked out on strike. One for the side of machines. My first computer came with an Epson printer, and it served me well until I needed to lay down books to copy things. So then I got it a separate scanner, just before the all-in-ones became affordable. The next break down lead to the first all-in-one purchase. After looking around and reading information on printers, I got an HP. When it died I contacted HP about repair, but they suggested I send the broken one back for trade in value with a new all-in-one. They delivered. The printer races at a snail's pace towards getting the job done. It's a good job though, so I went printing hapily along -- for about 9 months. I went along with the trade in deal with the next breakdown, again, and it was my fault for taking so long to return the two broken computers. I got them shipped before the Christmas season, one year. HP has so many separate division, and nobody particularly cares about anybody else's job. They don't know about model numbers and online purchase and finding the right phone number to finally show up in a database. Needless to say, there was lots of "holding" time involved. My ire rose. Although I shipped both printers back with the HP ID stickers through UPS, as they requested, they only could verify receipt of one. This is about February by now, and the thought of dealing with the printer raises my blood pressure to a quick boil. The customer service rep finally says they'll give me credit for receipt of one printer, and cut me a check for $150. for the other printer. I never did figure out their logic, but I was becoming more compromising--"just do something!" Nothing ever came in the mail. No check. Never. I finally threw in the white flag and surrendered control of the situation. Disgrunted, but copying, I carried on for a couple of years. The damn things must be set to self-destruct, because every couple of years, here's the printer problem again. After awhile, it's just like waiting for the phone to ring. It's going to happen. So, I've broken away from HP. I'm going with a Dell that was on sale for a great price. Hope I don't have trouble finding ink. With the favor of the gods, I'll be printing my short story entry for the annual Writer's Digest contest before the end of the week. It's always when you need one of those mechanical thing-a-ma-bobs, that they break. It's alomst as constant at the theory of gravity. |
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