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Wednesday, December 21, 2016

Danger in Excess Water Consumption │ Why the Drop in U.S. Life Expectancy? │ Traffic Crash Risk May Double with Just One Hour of Lost Sleep

With my step-son Pote and his girlfriend out last evening with my eldest step-son Tho's car, I tried to expend scant time in getting to bed ─ I wanted to get the house locked up so that the kid would at least have to use his key to get his bed-mate into the house for the night. 

It was something like 11:13 p.m. when I found myself in bed; and exactly nine minutes later, I heard Pote driving into the open carport.

I slept quite well until I became aware enough to check the time at 4:11 a.m.  I took a bathroom break, drank some water, and irrigated my nasal passageways; but sleep was a fickle companion thereafter.

I could have gotten up as early as 6:41 a.m., but that was just too early.  I didn't want to rise ahead of 7:00 a.m.

Yet when next I checked the time, it was something like 8:08 a.m.  I rose, and had no sooner used and then exited the bathroom, when my shirtless eldest step-son Tho came rushing up the stairs to use it.

He had not gone to work.

Pote and his girlfriend were downstairs in the boys' den area where Pote sleeps, dressing as if to go somewhere 

And then somewhere between 8:30 a.m. and 8:45 a.m., all three left together, and I was left home by myself for the best part of the day.  

I should have taken a break from the post I wanted to publish today at my Thai-Iceland website, but I have been working on it since last Friday.

My determination to be done with it cost me the local grocery shopping expedition I wanted to make, for it was well into the noon-hour before I finally got Palm Iceland Dubai published.  I hadn't even done any exercising.

Maybe if the day had not been so bright outside ─ there was more sunshine than I cared ─ I might still have gone shopping.  But I have not shaved in possibly 10 days (maybe more), and I felt too public-shy to be out trekking the sunlit streets looking as I do.

I needed poor weather.

Granted, the ground is still covered with a few inches of snow, and there is lots of ice out there; but the snow really only added to the brightness of the day.

So I remained home, and caught up on the exercising.

I made a disconcerting discovery in the freezer early in the afternoon when I went looking for some of my regular ground beef.  Unless I am badly forgetful, it appears to me that two portions from a package that cost me around $8.50 seem to have disappeared.

I could only locate a smaller portion of regular ground beef that I had buried deeper into the freezer.

My step-sons both have jobs, and use a car to get themselves out and about.  Yet my precious ground beef supply ─ that I have to hike off to procure with my limited pension ─ is always in peril.

It would not be so bad if the brothers would regularly contribute towards the $1,600 monthly mortgage, but the eldest has never done so, and the youngest has only rarely offered anything.   

Meanwhile, I cannot even keep myself supplied with some ground beef if its presence is discerned ─ particularly where the eldest is concerned.

Tomorrow morning I must forsake anything I am doing and ensure that I get out mid-morning and shop.

I want here to post two photos of my wife Jack's mother that Jack took on (I think) October 30 when she and some of her family were visiting the Ayutthaya Historical Park in Thailand:


There are still people ─ including medical professionals ─ who believe that optimal health requires the consumption of lots and lots of water each day.

It is especially stressed when someone becomes ill.

That is utter balderdash.

A section of the British Medical Journal featured a recent case study of a 59-year-old woman who developed a urinary tract infection, and who began drinking large quantities of water in an effort to flush out her system.

These two articles report on the incident:



Water should taste delicious ─ if you're practically gagging on it because it is essentially repugnant to get down, then you are drinking far too much.


Where good health and quality of life is concerned, it seems to suck to be an American of late:


You may note in that article that some speculate that the finding is anomalous, or a mere statistical blip; and the next review statisticians levy will find that longevity is again increasing.

But I think this report is probably more useful to people than just waiting and seeing if things will improve come the next assessment:


Dr. Mercola had a whole lot more to offer by way of commentary and research:


People who turn to medications for every little physical discomfort they meet with are fast-tracking to trouble.  


I don't drive ─ but where a shortage of sleep at night is concerned, how does this statistic sound?
...Researchers found that drivers who had slept for less than four hours had 11½ times the crash risk rate of drivers who had slept seven hours or more; drivers who had four to five hours of sleep had 4.3 times the risk; those who had five to six hours had 1.9 times the risk; and those who had six to seven hours had 1.3 times the risk.
So even just five to six hours of sleep is supposed to be insufficient, and can nearly double the risk of an accident.



But as usual, I don't understand what is intended by sleep ─ do they mean being utterly unconscious, or just in bed?

For me to achieve seven hours in total of complete slumber, I would probably need to be in bed for nine or 10 hours ─ maybe more.

I normally get anywhere from 2½ to four hours of sleep in an initial block; but after that, I just get snatches of sleep ─ intermittent or fragmented bouts that may only match the periods I am experiencing of wakefulness.

Or it can sure seem like it.

So for me, it was never feasible to be able to get seven or eight hours in my working life.  Anyway, in my latter years of employment, I was rising at 3:30 a.m. to begin readying for the tedious commute I would be faced with in order to make it to the office for my 6:00 a.m. start.    

Before my wife Jack joined me here in Canada in May 2006, I was trying to get to bed before 9:00 a.m.  

But even if I managed to get to bed by 8:00 a.m. ─ which was indeed rare ─ I wouldn't be getting seven hours of sleep in the 7½ hours that I would be in bed.  I would have needed to be there for maybe another couple of hours to rack up the required total numbers ─  as I said, it was just not feasible.


Well, my wife Jack unexpectedly showed up here from Vancouver around 5:40 p.m.  She said that she became sick late last Thursday, and was actually in bed for most of the next two days ─ her body aching all over.

I had wondered why she had not been around since ─ I think ─ maybe Tuesday of last week.  I thought that maybe she was just waiting for the Christmas weekend.

I am going to have to gradually try and finish this post with my usual journal entry from 41 years ago, back when I was 26 years old, and living in a basement housekeeping unit in New Westminster.  

I was renting it in a house located on Ninth Street, maybe one or two houses up from Third Avenue. 
SUNDAY, December 21, 1975

I arose, tiredly,  just about 6:00 a.m.

My left foot is no better.

I feel bad still about my decision concerning Christmas Eve's dinner, but I will uphold it.  I don't hate Marie, but realize it is best I avoid her as I do Cathy.

I planned yesterday to arise early this morning and make a rapid circuit of Burnaby Lake; but my distance travelled last night and my late retirement made me opt otherwise.  Anyway, my foot is so sore a long and fast-paced venture would be impossible.

At 9:30 a.m. I lied down and napped; I arose 11:00 a.m.; I slept beautifully, and discovered I'd undergone a NE.

I am being haunted with conscience over my Christmas Eve decision; I fear I may have badly hurt dad, and that he may exact vengeance upon Marie as the cause, as is too often, of his frets.

Yes, it hurts to think that the Christmas the two of them have planned and wanted for so long cannot be, for without me, why should they bother with a turkey?  They can't eat one unaided.

The poor guys; and dad was so certain all things seemed to be working out in his favour for a change.

Bed at 9:00 p.m.
The previous day, I had hiked out to visit my father Hector at 6038 Imperial Street in Burnaby where he and his girlfriend Maria Fadden shared an apartment. 

On the premise that the three of us were going to do some grocery shopping ─ probably at the Kingsgate Mall in the Mount Pleasant area of Vancouver ─ I accompanied them.

But my father and Maria both claimed that it would be nice first to have a beer or two in the Biltmore Hotel beer parlour.  Its address was 2755 Prince Edward Street.

I was to be spending Christmas Eve with them ─ it had been all agreed. 

However, in the Biltmore, my father kept buying round after round of beer.

He became engaged in some sort of electronic game with another guy at a table immediately adjacent to ours.  Maria ─ who became hopelessly addled when she drank ─ started bitching and wondering where my father had gone off to.

Several times I said that he was at the next table, but she never seemed to hear me over her ongoing bitching.  I could even hear my father talking from time-to-time, as I expected that she surely could.

Finally I tried to direct her to look right at him, but she exclaimed that he was not there ─ instead, she proclaimed that she could see him leaving out a door.

With that, the besotted woman jumped up and ran off to try and catch whomever she saw go outside.

I couldn't believe it.

Somehow she managed to find her way back to our table, and I said in utter exasperation that she was as stupid as people say she is.

That brought on a confrontation.  My father chose to return to our table, and offered that  it was impossible to win an argument with a woman.

But I had taken enough.  I downed my beer, and said that I was leaving.  I stormed off whith my father desperately calling to me and trying to catch up, but he couldn't.

I jogged back to their place in Burnaby ─ I had a key to their apartment.  But the building was locked up.  I tried seven different doors before finding one that allowed me entry. 

I went to their apartment and finished some soup we had earlier lunched on; and then I wrote a note declaring that not only would I not be there for turkey dinner Christmas Eve, but I was never going to come back there again.

I left the apartment key on the note, and left, hiking back to my room, feeling sorrowful as hell for my lonely father.

And myself.

I had somehow injured my foot, probably while jogging from the Biltmore to their apartment building.

It is interesting to me that I concluded that Maria was best avoided as surely as was my younger brother Mark's girlfriend, Catherine Jeanette Gunther.

I loved and adored Jeanette, but there were those times!

It hurt me to read that account yesterday when I as typing it out ─ I had not read it before.

Also of interest to me today is that when I had that late-morning nap, I managed to experience a nocturnal emission ("NE").  Those have become an impossibility to me in my later years, alas.
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