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Saturday, July 22, 2017

On Detoxing from Sugar │ Folic Acid Is Inferior to Folate

It is becoming the norm now to report that my younger brother Mark spent some of the evening unconscious ─ such as was the case last evening.

After he had come home around 8:30 p.m., he sat at the dining table dealing with what mail had come for him, and he also perused the free Surrey Now-Leader that had been dropped off earlier in the day.

I soon tuned in an episode of iZombie; and about midway through it he came into the living room to join me, and sat into his favourite chair with a glass of beer.

It was not at all long thereafter when I glanced over and saw that he was unconscious. He remained in that state throughout the ensuing season finale episode of Supernatural, and only revived after I had given up on him and tuned in news telecasts on regular T.V.  

During the last half of iZombie, a couple of times I speculated that I might be hearing something like eggs boiling on the stove in the kitchen. My eldest stepson Tho was home, but he was up in the bathroom, and had been for some while.

So I finally checked, and sure enough ─ a couple of eggs and an equal number of thick chunks of some manner of large sausage were merrily boiling away.

I turned them off, of course, for I had been hearing them roiling away for a time.

They were indeed Mark's. When he regained consciousness over an hour later, he was to make a meal of them.

But had he been living alone ─ or just been home alone ─ the pot would have boiled dry during that hour; and who knows what would have then occurred to it and its contents in an hour at maximum heat on that stove's electric element that was of course red hot?

I said nothing to him after he was conscious ─ I expect that it would have been wasted breath. He would be more likely than not to have no memory after that evening of anything that I said ─ his brain has deteriorated too far after many decades of excessive drinking. 

I didn't sit up too late. I announced my intention of retirement to him, and was in bed by 11:12 p.m., leaving him alone with the T.V. news programme that I had last tuned in.

During my night of fractured sleep, I rose once to use the bathroom and drink some water; and it was 6:31 a.m. this morning when I checked the time and rose for the day.

It was unexpectedly pleasant to see that the cul-de-sac pavement out in front of the house was wet with recent rain, and the sky heavily overcast.

I am still involved in the edit of an old post at my hosted website My Retirement Dream, so I busied myself with that after I had fixed my day's first hot beverage.

I felt too physically lacking to care to tackle an exercise session out in the backyard tool shed while Mark was still abed in the early morning.

I think that he got up before 9:00 a.m.

I entered into a bit of a decline as the morning progressed; and at 10:16 a.m. I was back in bed to seek a nap, remaining there for just over 70 minutes, I believe.

Upon going downstairs to the kitchen to prepare a reasonably small meal ─ my first of the day ─ Mark appeared; and in one of his infuriating ludicrous dithers, he ranted on about a problem he had with the washing machine during his laundering.

I know he isn't accusing me of anything, but it immediately rouses my ire when he does this, glowering at me with his face twisted up into its ugliest snarl as if he is treating of some naughty child ─ and not his older brother.

He also complained about not knowing where a large coffee can containing sundry nails was ─ it used to be in plain view when one entered the backyard tool shed.

Well, two or three weeks ago, my wife Jack had spent just about a couple of hours cleaning and tidying in that shed, and the place has looked phenomenally ordered compared to how it had been. And that says nothing of the spider nests she had swept away.

I had since noticed that some old coffee cans were piled together in a far corner under a shelving unit alongside the left wall of the shed as one walks into the small building, but Mark seems to have some sort of mental deficiency that prevents him from noticing things like this. 

I have often had to weather his rages when he can't find something like a can opener in the kitchen ─ he accosts me about it as if I know exactly where the item is. And so darned often I will simply lift a pot or something in the dish rack and lo! ─ there is the missing item. 

He seems incapable of using calm and reason ─ he prefers flying into a snarling, scowling rage that feels directed at me, and it makes me in turn feel like putting a fist into the centre of his contorted face.

And I see that I have managed to work myself up and need to switch topics.

Suffice to say that he never napped today, and left here during the noon-hour, saying he had to go and do some work on his three-ton cube van in whatever distant parking compound he keeps it.

I don't know if my youngest stepson Poté was home and in bed during the early morning, and then got up and left while I was napping; but only his older brother Tho seems to be here now as I type these words at 1:41 p.m. 

I've not noticed any further rain since I first rose this morning, but the sky is still heavily overcast. Not a great start for the two-day Fusion Festival in Surrey's Holland Park a mile or so from here where I live.

Nelly Furtado is supposed to entertain late tomorrow, but I have no plans of hiking over even though the Festival is free. I do not enjoy these events all on my own ─ I need a companion to share in them with.

I want now to post a scan of an old photo ─ the description just beneath is what was printed on the reverse of the photo by my mother Irene Dorosh's husband Alex:

Brother Bill & Irene in Edison Park, Fort Myers, Fl. 1972
I suppose that Alex's brother Bill was likely living in Florida when Alex and my mother went down there for a visit.

And I have just done a search of previous photos I scanned and posted here over the past many, many months ─ this next photo can only have been taken that very same day. The description beneath it is from the Google album where I have the scan filed:

As you can see at the right border of this photo, it was part of a roll of film that was developed in December 1972. 
That is my mother Irene Dorosh, although I do not believe that she had yet married her future husband Alex and taken on that surname. 
I believe that she is posed with one of Alex's brothers, but I cannot guess where the photo was taken.
And now I know where!

Well, it seems that I was wrong about Poté not being here ─ he is. And Mark has just walked back into the house at 2:21 p.m. He must have finished whatever he wanted to do with his truck. 

Heck, I think he even intends to try for a nap ─ he'll need it if he plans drinking most of the rest of the day with his girlfriend and drinking buddies.

I have no trouble at all avoiding candy and chocolate bars. I rarely eat baked goods, either. If my wife Jack buys something like that, I wait and let Mark and my stepsons get at it; and if anything remains a day or two later, then maybe I will partake of a piece of whatever it is.

But many people are unquestionable sugar junkies. This commentary is for them:


I went in search of the CNN article that was referred to ─ if you would like to take a look at it, here it is:


The month-long 'sugar detox' diet leads off with the initial three-day utterly carbohydrate-free diet. But I'm a cynic. I bet most people who make it past the three days soon enough become carbohydrate rescidivists

In seeking out that CNN article, I read an even more recent one about a young couple who went on their version of a sugar-free diet for two weeks ─ note that the language in the article is occasionally somewhat vulgar:


I did rush through the article, but I never noticed any mention of this diet having anything specific to do with the official sugar-free diet. That would explain why the couple were soon heavily focused upon sweet potatoes ─ those ought to be 'no-nos' where carbohydrate avoidance is concerned. 

They also started eating a heck of a lot of oil-baked items ─ I wouldn't deem that to be any foundation of a wholesome diet.

But people do what they want, don't they?

I came across something else today that I hope I can remember ─ folic acid supplementation is far less effective where assimilation of that vitamin is concerned than is folate supplementation.

I do take a folic acid supplement (one milligramme) daily, but I guess I should try to see if my shopping sources carry any folate supplements instead.

Apparently as many as one out of every two of us have a genetic mutation ─ the MTHFR gene variant ─ that results in trouble converting folic acid into the more biologically active folate form.

If there is any chance at all that you are interested in this, you can refer to this article:


Mark was too antsy to get out and do his socializing, I guess. He soon exited his bedroom and made his farewell at 2:51 p.m. 

Should he and his girlfriend Bed get along this evening, he typically spends his Saturday nights at her home, so I will have the living room and T.V. to myself after dark.

My vision and overall physical conditioning are so critically impaired that I took a break from this post in the early mid-afternoon and just lied face-down upon my bed, slipping into a bit of a nap.

In the past few weeks, I have even begun to question whether it is within me to ever get back into regular distance walking.

These are all indicators that maybe I am on track in believing that there is no sense in me continuing with this pointless life I lead by having a 70th birthday.

I am going to finish today's post now with this journal entry of mine from 41 years ago when I was 26 years old, and living in a basement housekeeping unit in New Westminster.

I was renting in a private home located on Ninth Street, and about two houses up from Third Avenue.

I was over a month into a three-month contract of full-time employment with 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 swamping on their blue pick-up truck, generally driven by Esther St. Jean, a sweetheart in her early 40s.

I had worked for S.A.N.E. prior to this ─ perhaps beginning back in 1974; but only on the most part-time basis.
THURSDAY, July 22, 1976

Up around 6:40 a.m.

This grey morning shall find me at Woodward's buying 2 money orders: $17.45 for some yogurt equipment from Quebec's (Chambly) Rosell Institute, and $26.80 for books from the F.&S.F. Book Co. (Rogues in the House by Howard, Boats of the Glen Carrig by Hodgson, Swordships of Scorpio by Akers, Castle of Llyr by Alexander, Bloody Sun by Bradley, When the Green Star Calls, by Carter, and Time Slave by Norman). 

I passed a fair amount of the day on truck duty, though nothing gruelling; I worked with Steve Thackray. 

Esther gave me 2 rolls.

It began raining in the afternoon a bit.

At Safeway I spent $1.99 on pears and liver (19¢ lb & 59¢ lb resp.).

Esther gave me a ride home, getting me here about 4:26 p.m.

At the Games, I saw Nadia Comanici collect her 6th perfect 10 score!

I'll mail my money orders while on my way to mom's; again, I expect to have the place to myself as I leave at 6:15 p.m.

No more sprinkling.

The only mail I had was a second Lucky Leo Lottery ticket, this one from St. Joseph's School; also, a delivery notice apprising me of "registered mail" awaiting me at the Scott-Town sub #7.

I had a pretty heavy carbohydrate / fat snack.

Coming home, I again jogged the distance in about 45 minutes, arriving about 10:15 p.m.

Bed at 11:00 p.m.

(Note: Russia's Nellie Kim scored 10 in floor exercises; her second such.)
I had time that morning to walk on up to Woodward's department store on Sixth Avenue ─ that venerable store's location is now occupied by the Royal City Centre Mall.

I don't remember ever owning any yogurt-making equipment. From some research I have just done, the Institut Rosell Inc. was bought up and merged with Lallemand Health Solutions

The books I was mail-ordering were so expensive because the first two (by Robert E. Howard and William Hope Hodgson) were hardcovers ─ I still own the latter book. Both were published by the F.&S.F. Book Co., and were part of the company's Classics of Science Fiction series.

Apparently I co-swamped that day with someone named "Steve Thackray" ─ or however else his last name may have been spelled. He is lost to memory now.

I am impressed with my younger self that I was finding the Olympic Games so interesting.

The home of my mother Irene Dorosh was my main mailing address, so I generally visited two or three times a week. This particular week, she had gone on a holiday back to her roots in Ontario where she grew up; and her husband Alex had (I believe) gone with a friend to Reno.

Their little home no longer exists, but its address was 12106 - 90th Avenue. To illustrate how active I tended to be back then, that early evening hike to get to their home off in the Kennedy Heights area of Surrey would have taken me 1½ hours at a fast pace.   

Obviously making the return journey in half-time was something of a feat.

I don't know what the item of registered mail was, but the "sub #7" was actually a postal substation within a pharmacy at 96th Avenue & Scott Road (120th Street). I would have passed by that intersection on my return journey to my room, but the pharmacy would have been closed.

Going through these old journal entries as I do for the relevant day on each day that I make a blog post, I often find myself feeling very reflective about my life. So much so right now that I feel like doing some drinking.

We shall see....
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