My wife Jack showed up yesterday, possibly just ahead of 5:00 p.m.
She has been packing in preparation for a trip back home to Thailand to visit her family ─ and especially her mother ─ in Nong Soong village, very near Udon Thani (city).
She last saw her mother in early March 2013.
I didn't know just when she was making this trip, so last evening I asked her ─ she will be leaving this evening, possibly around 10:00 p.m.
The imminence rather caught me unexpectedly.
She's going to have to pay extra for the amount of baggage she will be taking ─ her two large luggage pieces are just crammed full, and are very heavy. And she'll have a carry-on, as well as her purse.
I don't remember when it was that we got to bed last night ─ it was after 1:00 a.m., I am sure.
Over the course of the evening, I had imbibed about three or four ounces of spiced rum, three cans of strong (8% alcohol) beer, and two cans of average strength (5.5% alcohol) beer.
I know that she is probably beginning to feel some anxiety about the journey that she is undertaking alone.
As I lay beside her last night upon taking to bed, I wanted badly to put an arm about her to give her some comfort. However, I was unsure if the action would be received or rejected; and after all, I did have a fair amount of alcohol in my system ─ my emotions were being coloured by this.
She had not consumed any alcohol.
So I withheld. But it caused me tearful anguish there in the dark, and I lashed out at God in my mind.
How can He be content to watch my marriage die off as it is doing?
My wife and I have not been physically intimate in over 3½ years. And lately, she does not even offer a token good-by kiss when we part ─ and I certainly do not move in to force one.
Yet otherwise, we're entirely amicable.
I just have lost her respect since retiring in early April 2011, and only being able to offer my weak pension income to help with all of our various expenses.
Of course, there are other things, including my flagging ability to 'perform.' I am 67, after all; and she is 43.
I often present here in this blog that I cannot see myself achieving the age of 70 if my life's conditions do not vastly improve.
I have tried to derive a second income via the Web, but that has been a bust. And I have certainly never won a lottery jackpot, despite trying for over four decades.
Coincidentally on this topic, Google just deposited today a payment into my chequing account of $101.23 for AdSense earnings ─ a threshold of $100 has to be arrived at in one's balance before a payment is made.
But this is only the second payment I have ever received since joining AdSense back in (I think) December 2008. The first time I got a payment was around November 25, 2013.
So the first one took nearly five years, while this second one took almost three years.
If this is to be all I have going for me, then maybe I won't be alive to get that third payment if it's not going to show up for another three years ─ I would be 70 by then, after all.
Oddly, I am stating all of this while not feeling particularly depressed. Usually I would find myself in one of my deep depressions before I would speak in this fashion, but today I am mostly being analytical.
My wife Jack left to take care of some errands earlier this afternoon ─ it is 2:43 p.m. at this moment; so I decided to take advantage of her absence and make a start on this post.
Her youngest son Pote went to work at Guildford, leaving with his older brother Tho's car late in the noon-hour. Tho surprised his mother by presenting himself after getting up around noon ─ Jack had not realized that he had skipped work today.
So it is just he and I home for the nonce.
Once she is home again, she will probably remain until she is to go to the airport, so I will not have opportunity to do any further blogging.
My wife Jack arrived back home just a few minutes past 3:00 p.m. But I was to learn that she was not be be home for too much longer.
She did some cooking; and then soon she had her eldest son Tho carry down her heavy luggage from our bedroom.
As I have explained in earlier posts, Jack uses a Vancouver friend's car. Jack pays the insurance for the friend at a lesser rate than Jack is qualified for, and gets what seems to be nearly exclusive use of the car.
So she was going to return to Vancouver with everything that she is taking on her flight, and the friend will then drive her to the Vancouver airport, keeping possession of the car until Jack's return ─ which is not to be until November 21.
And thus it was that around 4:30 p.m., Jack was off to Vancouver.
Of course I saw her off, and she was even affectionate. I got two good hugs from her, and she even said "Love you" during the second big hug.
I got her to pose for this sequence of shots as she stood by the car:
When she had gone, it was a lonely feeling coming back into the seemingly barren house with only Tho home ─ he never even left his computer to see her off.
I came up here to work on this post, and then my cellphone rang ─ it was Jack. She was at a nearby 7-Eleven store that can be quickly accessed on foot via a blocked-off alley that runs past our home here in the cul-de-sac we live in.
She wanted me to bring her a pair of shoes that she had forgotten ─ comfortable shoes for walking in. She had forgotten them in our bedroom.
So I hustled over to her with them, and we shared a third good-bye hug.
She said that she will phone me this evening while she's keeping her lonely wait at the airport.
I have in the past consistently drank so much hot coffee that I have actually developed a bit of a sore throat.
You have probably noticed that it's easier to swallow some very hot liquid than it is to have it within your mouth ─ the tongue and mouth membranes are sensitive to heat, but for some reason we don't feel the heat as keenly when the swallow of liquid is going down our throat.
A review was done that was published back in June which implicated hot beverags as being a factor in the development of esophageal cancer.
This article reports briefly on the study:
A far more interesting report about the potential hazard is this one:
I just hope to get through life without ever developing any kind of cancer ─ one, that is, that has any impact whatsoever upon me.
I have no idea if I have some degree of elevated blood-pressure ─ it isn't something I fret over. In fact, the only time I have ever tried one of those free 'cuffs' some pharmacies have for taking a measurement, was maybe back in the 1980s at my younger brother Mark's challenge.
I do know that a doctor did once say that mine was a little high when I was having a check-up ─ again, that was back in the 1980s.
So clearly I am not taking any medication to try and lower my blood-pressure.
But just how realistic is a reading of 120/80? Back in December 2013, a report in the Journal of the American Medical Association declared that folks aged 60 and above were fine if their blood-pressure was no higher than 150/90.
For folks younger than 60, 140/90 was the ceiling at which the blood-pressure was still okay.
However, if practiced, that would reduce the profit the pharmaceutical industry makes from these blood-pressure products designed to reduce it.
This statement says it all: "...Researchers with long-standing ties to pharmaceutical companies are doing their best to deep-six those recommendations."
Then there is this report published earlier this month telling of a new study:
I do NOT need to be taking anything I don't really require that's going to potentially increase my risk of depression ─ I struggle enough with it as matters are.
The only serious incontinence I have ever suffered has been when I have been drinking and found myself without facilities nearby for seeking relief.
I remember one such episode back in the latter 1970s, I think it was. I had a 'snoot-load' of beer in me, and decided to hike out to Surrey from New Westminster.
That of course required hiking across the Pattullo Bridge.
Well, by the time I was over the summit of the bridge, I was already in trouble ─ I was starting to 'need to go' most badly.
I remember reciting as emphatically as I could ─ over and over ─ the poetic lines, "I am the master of my fate: I am the captain of my soul."
It helped a little.
But the nearer I got to the other side of the bridge, the worse the situation became ─ it was as if the very nearness of the approach of relief was enough, and my body was now willing to let loose the floodgates.
I never actually made a full release, but I did inadvertently 'squirt' a few times, somewhat wetting my jeans.
I got to the other side of the bridge and immediately turned off to the side and ducked into adjacent shrubbery that was present back then.
I would hate to be someone with limited bladder control on an ongoing, daily basis.
There are two utterly dreadful treatments out there being tested for women with incontinence ─ check out this pair of reports:
I would first research natural-source bladder-control supplementation ─ for instance, I have seen crataeva nurvala and horsetail mentioned as being of benefit.
There is also such a thing as bladder training.
And then there are some women like Kim Anami who have taken some of that training to a remarkably whole new level, as this DailyMail.co.uk article tells: 'Intimacy coach' Kim Anami lifts weights with her vagina.
I am closing now with a 41-year-old entry from my journal, back when I was 26 years old, and living in a basement housekeeping unit in New Westminster.
I was renting the tiny unit in a house located on Ninth Street at Third Avenue.
I was only working one day a week back then ─ usually a Friday ─ at a New Westminster charitable organization called S.A.N.E. (Self Aid Never Ends) that is today known as Fraserside Community Services Society. I was a swamper on their blue pick-up truck.
Back then, S.A.N.E. was located on Carnarvon Street, in a building that used to exist roughly where the New Westminster SkyTrain Station now empties out onto Carnarvon.
FRIDAY, October 24, 1975
I finally caught up on some sleep, not getting out of bed till 5:25 a.m.
I typed and shall mail a letter to Ron while on my way to S.A.N.E.
Bill & I were faced in the morning with a trip to Ladner to handle a load from a rummage sale; we had some aid unloading. From it I took a pair of old boots and a book Fons Perennis: An Anthology of Medieval Latin.
On my way home I bought eggs at Safeway as well as 16 ozs of boysenberry yogurt to be used when I begin my first try at bread making.
Note: yesterday on my way to Bill's I am positive I saw Frank Adams on 6th as I approached it. And on our trip to Ladner, we passed mom going home probably from Scottsdale.
Work after lunch consisted of another trip to Ladner for the smaller stock of a sale held at the Legion; Bob assisted.
On my way home, at Safeway I bought a box each of Red River Cereal and Roman Meal.
And as I finished writing this, about 5:12 p.m., Art knocked, even saying he knew I was in here; I risked my doubt on this.
Bill came over, interrupting some exercising; Cathy had phoned him and said my old man had phoned and was really mad, and going to drop in on me.
Bill didn't stay long, wondering if I cared to visit her with him; but I said no, preferring to retire early...at 7:10 p.m.
The letter I typed was to Ron Bain, and American pen-pal I had.
My co-swamper at S.A.N.E. was an older fellow named Bill Sevenko, but I no longer remember him. I just happened to have written down his last name once, and it stuck with me.
I have no idea whatever became of the Latin book.
The first stop at Safeway would have been when I went home for lunch. Often going home for lunch is something else I no longer remember.
Neither do I remember "Frank Adams," but I was certain that I had seen him the previous day when I was going over to visit my old friend William Alan Gill. Bill had a bachelor suite roughly three or four blocks from where I lived.
"Bob" ─ who assisted on that afternoon return trip to Ladner ─ is also lost to memory.
Once I was done with S.A.N.E. for the day, it was Art Smith whose knocking I ignored. He was an older chap in his early 40s with whom I had worked at S.A.N.E. and formed a friendship, but he would have only come by to drag me off to his home to sit and drink with him late into the night.
I was trying to get away from late nights.
Bill was more welcome company. "Cathy" was my younger brother Mark's girlfriend, Catherine Jeanette Gunther. Mark and Jeanette were renting a home together located in Whalley.
Mark was away hunting that week. My father Hector was an alcoholic who too often got into rages when he was drunk, yet he was such a dear and lovely man when he was sober.
I miss my father. I am just over 4¾ years older than he ever got to be.
And now here it is just after 7:00 p.m. I am looking forward to my evening drinks to assuage the sense of loneliness I am feeling.