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Monday, April 24, 2017

Why Almost Everyone Should Not Be Taking Calcium or Iron Supplements │ Gallbladder Surgeries Are Not Always Essential │ Genetic Testing for Disease

Although I never mentioned it in yesterday's post, it was raining steadily in the latter afternoon and on into the evening. My wife Jack had come home from Vancouver towards 4:30 p.m., and got busy cooking and doing various chores.

She got to watch some of the second episode of the revived Prison Break series with my drunken younger brother Mark and I early in the evening ─ the series had been one of her favourites.

Then I tuned in an episode of Marvel's Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. titled "No Regrets" which lost Jack's interest, so she got involved doing other things ─ one of which became getting herself ready to leave us and head on back to Vancouver. I had rather wondered if she was going to be spending the night.

She chose to leave during a most stirring sequence in which The Patriot (played by handsome actor Jason O'Mara) of the cyberworld referred to as "Framework" was about to yield up his life (à la the title character "at the bottom of the mine" in the song Big Bad John) by giving final structural support to a collapsing building long enough for his teammates and some children to be able to escape with their lives.

The visual of him doing this seemed to help a brainwashed Hydra Agent Melinda May (played by the magnificent Ming-Na Wen) retrieve some of her true memory ─ her mission as a Hydra agent had been to ensure The Patriot was killed.

The whole experience was not to be missed by any fan of the series, and even my drunken brother Mark seemed captured.

But as I said, Jack got herself all ready to leave, and in the thick of the programming action did just that without a word of farewell. I would normally have seen her off, and I am certain that she full well knew that.

So whether she left wordlessly to spare me from missing what I was so engaged in watching ─ or whether she just didn't give a damn whether I saw her off or not ─ out the front door she went while I sat on the chesterfield in the living room trying not to be too distracted by her untimely choice of just when she felt that she had to leave.

She easily could have waited a few minutes more. After all, it was possibly around 8:15 p.m. at that point, so I cannot imagine that she had anywhere to go that she would otherwise have been late for had she delayed.

It was unsettling for me, and does still negatively affect me to some degree when I reflect upon it.

Mark was no help later when he started bitching at length because he found the kitchen floor to be slippery from whatever waxing agent she seemed to have used to clean it. I so resent the miserable prick when he gets like he was last night.

He probably would have been bitchy far earlier about one thing or another, but he had been invited by Jack to help himself to the supper she had prepared, and she went to the trouble of explaining the dishes because he can't handle her Thai-style level of spicing; so I suppose he held his tongue as best he could until she was absent.

But he doesn't give a bloody damn how upsetting and agitating he is to me.

He owns a majority share of the house, and keeps threatening that once he retires ─ probably by the end of the year ─ we're going to have to sell the place.

I think he realizes that I won't move into an apartment with my largely absentee wife Jack and her basically slob sons, so he possibly has the booze-addled impression that I will throw in with him on a place.

But I will not subject myself to his drunken mental abuse one day further if I get pushed into selling the house, therewith signaling the true finish of my troubled marriage to Jack.

If he continues drinking after retirement with the liberality that he does now as a working man, then he'll have dementia within five years of retirement. He often seems like he has it now, his besotted brain is so enfeebled most evenings. Heck, it's a 50/50 gamble on any evening if it will be one in which he passes out for however long that these leavings of his senses may last.

He will rue being on his own. No one will be there to turn off the stove element or oven when he is cooking something and passes out. He won't have me to come home and bitch to, or repeatedly tell the same information to time and again because he never remembers the conversations.

He has a girlfriend, but they sometimes can't get along well enough for him to be able to spend his usual Saturday night at her home ─ on such Saturday evenings when they get into drunken conflict, he'll show up here unexpectedly. There is no way that they could live together unless they both quit drinking.

So if this house we are in now has to go because he forces the issue, he's looking at living by himself. Anyone who foolishly takes up with him as a co-tenant will regret doing so. He is too unbearable as a drunkard.

I don't know what's in store.

Maybe once he retires he'll be unable to afford his present liberality with booze purchases, and he'll have to drastically cut back.

As much as he complains about my two step-sons ─ as I do so very liberally in this blog ─ they are company for him. I think that he actually talks with them more than do I.

We'll see what befalls. He turns 65 in July, so retirement is not long off. It will be a retirement in which he has no company pension plan to look forward to ─ he is a self-employed cartage truck driver. I don't have any idea what sort of retirement fund he has set up for himself, but it will be shocking to me if it allows him the same booze diet that he has in his employment life.

I cannot now recall which side of 11:00 p.m. it was when I made it to bed last night. But I did have an unusually lengthy first block of sleep, for it seems to me that I never awoke and made that first check of time until around 4:00 a.m. I used the bathroom and drank some water, and then I sought further sleep.

My next time check was 5:47 a.m. I thought about it for a minute, and then decided that there was no sense trying for more sleep ─ it was too near 6:00 a.m. So I rose.

I believe that it was possibly still lightly raining, but that was to very soon stop.

I could hear my eldest step-son Tho fussing about downstairs as he readied to leave for work, so I turned on my computer and sat here until I heard him head out the front door. His younger brother Poté was still in bed.

Well, Poté never was to leave for work today, and I have no idea why. He didn't even get up until into the noon-hour.

I wanted to get out and do some grocery shopping at the Save-On-Foods store about 1¼-or-more miles away here in Whalley. Thanks to rising as early as I did, I was able to put in a normal day's work of content compilation at the post I am working on at my Amatsu Okiya website by 9:00 a.m.

Then I readied for the hike. I checked my account balance online and saw that the $1,600 monthly mortgage had been withdrawn today from my chequing account, so I was comfortable that there was enough cash remaining to easily cover the amount of shopping that I had in mind.

It was 9:36 a.m. when I set forth for the supermarket.

The sky was overcast and it was somewhat chilly, but I did see some effort by the Sun to break forth. There was nothing notable to report about the hike or errand itself, and I was back home a little before 11:00 a.m.

Next up was a meal of leftovers ─ a chicken soup that Jack had left us on her previous visit home, but which her sons have displayed little interest in. There was quite an amount of it, but I cleaned it up.

And then at precisely noon, I sought a nap to facilitate digestion, lying upon my left side. It was 1:03 p.m. when I checked the time afterwards, and rose.

The afternoon became predominantly sunny as I type these words at 3:04 p.m., although there is a very cool breeze. If not for the duty-call of this blog, I would be sitting out in the backyard benefiting from the sunshine.

Anyway, yesterday I posted a whole long sequence of photos that I think were likely taken on November 13, 2016, in the Nong Soong area of Thailand.

Nong Soong is my wife Jack's home village ─ it is situated perhaps no more than a 15-minute drive from the city of Udon Thani.

Even though Jack would be charging that Fall trip to credit, she had not seen her mother since early March 2013, so she wanted to make the visit.

The photos I left off with yesterday were of Jack and a few of her loved ones out somewhere in the countryside, so I will continue with more from that lengthy sequence ─ and lead off with images of Jack herself:

I am unable to identify either of these ladies:

This woman is someone Jack has always referred to as being her "sister-cousin":

And now Jack again, with the setting Sun in the background:

My wife Jack's old friend Daisha does an uncanny ladyboy caricature when the mood strikes:

This is my wife Jack's mother:

This is Lumpoon, the eldest of Jack's two older sisters:

This is Lumpoon's husband, tending a small cooking fire:

Here we have "sister-cousin" again, and a very nice and pensive portrait of Daisha in a serious moment:

And this is the final photo in what was part of an extremely long sequence of many, many images:

I don't know whose home this is, but clearly it belongs to someone Jack and her family knows.


If you are taking calcium supplements, you are most probably doing yourself and your bones more harm than good.

And no one should be taking iron supplements if they do not have a verified iron deficiency.

But what is wrong with taking calcium supplements if a person is concerned about conditions like osteoporosis?

Well, read this for yourself:


Remember, most doctors are not nutritionists, and they only know the same tired old basics that have been taught decade after decade.

Inform yourself!

Or you are going to have to incur the consequences.


One of my cousins had his gallbladder removed when he was probably around 30 years of age. I'm not him, so I don't know if it was truly essential. It certainly put a halt to the kind of drinking he used to like to do.

But that was back in the late 1970s or so.

If you or someone you love are being pressured into having the same sort of surgery, it just might not be necessary. Note these reports concerning a study which came up with that conclusion:




It often gives me great pause how my younger brother Mark is able to drink like he does, yet he has never had anything break down that we know of ─ i.e., he has never been hospitalized, apart from getting his tonsils out when he was a pre-schooler.

But he wasn't drinking booze quite that early, so that had nothing to do with it.


Would you pay just about $200 U.S. to have a home kit designed to test you ─ genetically ─ to see if you are at risk for any of 10 different medical conditions?

You still have to submit a saliva sample to the company to get the results ─ which I think you have to register online for by setting up an account. The results get posted there, as I understand it.

Remember, all you would learn is if you are at greater risk for any of those 10 conditions than is the general population. And it's left up to you to worry over, since you will be having to self-assess what those tendencies might really signify.

I think there is presently a $20-off sale going on for the kit.

Here are some reports about this scheme:




I sure don't have that kind of money to be tossing away for anything as shaky as this.


My eyes and butt both need a rest from blogging, so I shall now close with a journal entry from 41 years ago when I was 26 years old, and living in a basement housekeeping unit in New Westminster.

The house I was renting the tiny area in was located on Ninth Street, and about two houses up from Third Avenue.

I had been drinking lots of vodka at a friend's home the evening before, and did not get back to my room and to bed until 2:10 a.m.
SATURDAY, April 24, 1976

I didn't sleep adequately, and got up finally toward 9:30 a.m.

I wasn't at all pleased with my complexion this morning, but it eventually coloured up nicely.

I typed Jean a short letter.

The landlady's had company since yesterday, and the damn noisy brats are at times close to driving me out of my mind; I hate the damn noisy bawl-babies! 

This day was an utter bore.

At 7:45 p.m. some persistent knocking with knob turning happened, and a male voice calling my name; it may have been dad.

At 8:00 p.m. I mailed Jean's letter.

I'm bedding about 8:10 p.m. or 8:15 p.m.
Wow! Those kids upstairs must have been as aggravating to me as the horrible brown hound beyond my backyard fence has been today. How I wish that I could be legally appointed its executioner and have an end to the several years of aural torment that thing has put me through.

The letter was for Jean M. Martin (née Black), an American pen-pal.

I just about never answered my door if I did not know who was there, or was not desiring that person's company if I did clue in on who was knocking. In the case of my father Hector, he would never come by like this unless he was plastered. And in such a case, he was the most odious company. I would have needed to be drunk to endure his drunkenness.

And so I feigned being absent.

Of course, it might not have been him. 

But anyone whose company would have been acceptable to me had an identifying knock, and/or knew to call out to identify themselves. Thus, whomever it was, it was someone I wished nothing to do with that day, and particularly so close to my planned bedtime.
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