The incessant promotions for Black Friday leave me weary. I know it’s hardly novel to complain about rampant consumerism, but it’s just so relentless, with a big, odious emphasis (say that three times fast) on FOMO (fear of missing out).
I subscribe to a number of newsletters to keep up on occasional deals and to see if stuff I normally buy is on sale, and also to sometimes find interesting new things. Black Friday basically turns my inbox into BLACK FRIDAY BLACK FRIDAY BLACK FRIDAY BLACK FRIDAY BLACK FRIDAY.
I now just automatically delete every newsletter until Black Friday/Cyber Monday/Black Week/Month/Year is over.
At least we have less than a month left of Christmas music being piped into every public space 24/7.
Among life’s little annoyances is wax buildup in ears. Why do our ears even have wax? Does it serve a purpose, other than to be bothersome and clog up your ear canals and just generally be kind of gross?
I asked the internet and this is what it said (answer is courtesy of kidshealth.org:
Earwax has several important jobs. First, it protects and moisturizes the skin of [sic] ear canal, preventing dry, itchy ears. Second, it contains special chemicals that fight off infections that could hurt the skin inside the ear canal. Finally, it acts as a shield between the outside world and the eardrum. When dust, dirt, and other things enter your ear, the earwax traps them so they can’t travel any further.
Apparently earwax will magically fall out of your ears without any action on your part. The same site says this explicitly:
If you want to get rid of earwax, here’s what you need to do: nothing!
I can do nothing quite well, so I am set. My doctor confirmed the same today (that no action is needed against wax, not that I generally excel at doing nothing) when I had both ears squirted repeatedly with a syringe of warm water to remove approximately two kilograms of embedded wax.
Before this squirting occurred, I spent 11 (!) nights putting drops of extra virgin olive oil in each ear before going to bed. Putting oil in your ears is as much fun as it sounds like. It generally didn’t dribble out, but laying on my side and waiting for the oil to settle/soak in for ten minutes night after night was not an experience I am eager to repeat. Much like ear wax itself, it was annoying and kind of yucky.
Speaking of, when the deed was done, I took a photo of the results floating in the container that I had to hold up to my ears to catch the water. It is kind of appalling to think that stuff was inside my body. Just thinking about it makes me not want to eat for the next week. Or year.
I thought about posting the photo here, perhaps behind a spoiler tag, but it’s just too vile. It will be my own special (?) memory. Maybe I’ll add some googly eyes to the container one day and then post it. For now, no one gets to see and everyone should be grateful.
Here’s to my ears not immediately clogging up again in a month’s time.
Yes, I could still win NaNoWriMo this year, with just four days left. Let me use this handy computer calculator to see what my daily word count would need to be to pull off the feat:
12,500 words per day.
This is due to having written no words at all this month.
On the one hand, there is a perverse sort of temptation in trying the impossible to see how far I’d get (my guess is maybe 10,000+ words, though the last day is a Saturday, which would lend itself to binging, were I so inclined). On the other hand, the only thing of value I’d get would be to simply exercise the ol’ writing muscles.
Maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing. Words are words, after all. Not to be confused with “Deeds, not words,” the credo adopted by Ace Hunter and his elite group of freedom fighters as featured in the all-time classic Megaforce, of course.
But on the third imaginary hand, if I was going to do something like that, it would probably be a better use of time to revisit one of my existing stories, or work on something new that wouldn’t be subjected to NaNoWriMo’s hellbent-for-metal approach of write now, edit later (maybe never, after looking over what the NaNo method produced).
Realistically, I’m probably not going to writer much over the next four days, but life is full of surprises and one of those surprises could be me writing stuff over the next four days. Who doesn’t love a surprise, except for maybe someone with a heart condition standing next to a giant fireworks display, not knowing it was about to suddenly explode?
Since starting 10Ks again I haven’t had many chances to get shots from Deer Lake Brook bridge lately, but thanks to being out of shape and only managing a 5K today, I did! Summer is definitely over.
Run 643Average pace: 6:02/km
Location: Burnaby Lake (CCW)
Start: 11:35 am
Distance: 5.02 km
Time: 30:17
Weather: Sunny, some cloud
Temp: 9ºC
Humidity: 77%
Wind: light
BPM: 175 (?)
Weight: 172 pounds
Total distance to date: 4825 km
Devices: Apple Watch Series 5, iPhone 8
Shoes: Saucony Switchback ISO (185 km)
Exactly three weeks and two pulled muscles later (one lower back, one upper thigh) I returned for only my second run of November. I was expecting to be slow, generally lack stamina, and so planned on only doing a 5K.
It was a good call.
I started out slow (6:10 on the fist km), got even slower (6:19 on the second) before finding some energy reserves on the third km, where I got my best results, a relatively zippy 5:41/km. After that it was downhill again, with the final km almost exactly mirroring the first.
Other than lacking energy I felt fine–no cramps or other issues. The pulled muscle in my leg didn’t hurt at all while running and seems fine now. I just had no gas in the tank.
Strangely, although the workout app claims an average BPM of 175 (which is high and plausible after three weeks of slothfulness), there is no heart rate data otherwise, just this message:
The heart rate for the walks before and after the run recorded without issue, so I’m not sure why it didn’t work for the run. Maybe I was running so slow it got confused and shut off.
The conditions were okay. It was clear, but felt colder than the 9ºC would indicate. It had rained earlier, so there was some piddle jumping, but the only really bad spot was that one section by the field that always floods. It was flooded and after trying to skirt around it, I gave up and just plunged through. My feet are almost dry now.
The harvest of destruction came as I approached the Cottonwood Trail just past the 3K mark. For reasons unknown, almost every tree between the trail and the train tracks had been cut down. It looked like a clearcut. I expected to see protesters locking arms together. A lot of bramble had been cleared out, too, but sloppily enough that the trail was covered in twigs and other detritus. Further, recent rains had hit this part of the trail especially hard, carving lines and further exposing tree roots in what is already the tree root-iest part of the trail. It’s the worst I’ve seen it in eight years of running here. Hopefully Cottonwood is next on the list for resurfacing, as it’s clearly overdue.
Crowd-wise it was not as bad as expected, though a gaggle of photographers completely and utterly blocked the path on the Piper Mill Trail. I actually had to stop and wait for them to part to get through. Why do people completely block the trail? Do they think no one else will ever use it except them? Perhaps.
Speaking of using the trail, I saw a pair of cyclists on the way in carefully studying the map, the one that clearly states NO CYCLING in multiple spots, and which includes directions to alternate routes. I confirmed that bikes were not allowed and directed them to the alternate route. They seemed displeased and I can’t blame them, because a bike lane on a road is not as nice as a trail around a lake, but they actually turned around and left, so kudos to them.
Overall this run went about as expected. I will cling to that third km where I briefly hit my stride as an example of how I can still run decently, as long as I, you know, actually go out and run.
I got an email from LinkedIn the other day with the following:
How I became a contact for myself, I don’t know, but I really need to update my profile picture. Any sufficiently knowledgeable geek will see I’m holding an iPhone 5c, which was a current model almost seven years ago–nearly as long as my contact Stan has been working at the college.
Speaking of me, I better reach out to myself now to stay in touch.
Okay, I just held out the index fingers on both hands and slowly moved them toward each other and made them touch. Connection made!
The other day I was in the grocery store, buying groceries, as one does, and I was in the pie filling aisle. I can’t actually think of the proper name for the aisle. Baking goods, maybe? Anyway, it’s where the cans of pie filling were and it made me sad because while they had many expected flavors (cherry, blueberry and the yuckfest known as mincemeat), the best one of all was missing: raisin.
I love raisin pie. But I can’t remember the last time I had raisin pie because they have become like a unicorn. When I lived downtown, I used to buy these “individual” sized raisin pies at Super Valu for $1.99 or something. They were so very yummy. I also by coincidence weighed close to 200 pounds.
Since those halcyon days, I have found it increasingly rare to find raisin pie and today it seems to have vanished entirely. Sure, there’s apple pie, and it’s good, but it’s not the same. There are no raisins in apple pie.
Even if I wanted to make my own, stores don’t seem to sell premade raisin pie filling, as noted above. I suppose I could make raisin pie from scratch. I could also wash my clothes by beating them on stones at the river, too. There are some things I’m just not likely to do.
So for now and perhaps forever, I shall lament the loss of the raisin pie.
This past Monday was Remembrance Day. While others were out paying respects to those who fought in all those great wars, I was at home, sitting on the bed, getting ready for a run. When I hopped off the bed, I felt a strange and unpleasant twinge in my lower back. I had spontaneously pulled a muscle. I’m pretty sure this is the same one I’ve spontaneously pulled before. I’m also pretty sure I know why this happens, but more on that in a bit.
The pain was immediate and my mobility curtailed just as swiftly. No bending, no stooping, no anything without being reminded that my back was no longer operating normally. I decided to take a Robax and suffer quietly. I went to work the next day. My suffering became less quiet. I took the following day off to actually give the back time to recover.
Fast-forward to Friday afternoon. The lower back is still a bit sore, which is annoying, but tolerable, and it’s not stopping me from doing things other than lifting heavy items, which I generally don’t want to do, anyway. I am planning to do a run on Sunday.
Before dinner I prop myself on the bed and color some of my sketches on the iPad. This is very soothing and relaxing. As I am doing this, the back muscle starts talking. At first it’s a murmur, but it becomes more insistent. I finally get up and now instead of feeling a little sore, it feels more like a pinched nerve, radiating waves of constant pain. This, I think, is not a good start to the weekend.
Apparently laying on the bed was a very bad idea. Who knew beds were so bad for you? (Our bed is kind of terrible, really. You almost need to leap to get onto it, for one thing.) I muddle through dinner. I take some Advil. I later take a T3. When I finally fall asleep I dream that I am flying, which is not entirely inaccurate based on my current medicated state.
By morning the pain has not diminished, and while I don’t think it’s an actual pinched nerve, there is no doubt it is hurting a lot more than before. I have breakfast and go to the nearby walk-in clinic. They tell me they can see me at 3 p.m., which is four hours hence. I imagine even the worse case scenario at the Emergency room won’t take that long, so I cross the street to Royal Columbian.
The triage area is curiously quiet. There are no injured people there spouting blood or holding out mangled hands. No one is barfing. An old man seems confused and I show him where to stand to be called forward. I am next after him. I answer all the questions, they take my blood pressure, temperature and tag me. When asked for allergies, I say, “Penicillin, sulfa and another antibiotic I can’t remember, but would recognize the name if I saw it.” The nurse consults my file to check. It describes my allergies thusly: “Penicillin. And more.” We give each other a look.
A young guy paces past saying to someone/no one that he is positive he is having a heart attack. He looks surprisingly hale for someone having a heart attack. I think I see a band on his wrist, so he’s already checked in, or has already been seen and is back, possibly due to the alleged heart attack. He wanders out again.
I am told to go to the Zone 2 waiting area. This is new to me, but it’s just another waiting area around the corner. There is a door to Zone 2 that requires a keycard and a sign that says a nurse will let you in shortly. I wait.
There are a few other people here, but I am again struck at how quiet it is for a weekend. The entrance where I came in is in view over to my right. I look out on the soggy gray day and the heart attack guy wanders in again, talking about the heart attack he is having. An intern and two security officers arrive and they all go through the sliding doors outside to discuss the heart attack. The heart attack guy leaves at the end of the discussion. Or maybe he goes around the hospital and sneaks back in through a different entrance.
A nurse takes me into Zone 2. I wonder how many zones there are. I again sit and wait, but this time there are no others in the chairs beside me. Conveniently there is a sign that tells me exactly where in the process I am and what steps lie ahead. Across the hall from me is an exam room with a number of beds and the curtains that provide a modicum of privacy. Another nurse waves me in to the leftmost bed, and tells me to take off my clothes, emphasizing that I do not need to remove my underwear. I can only imagine the stories. I put my clothes in a provided bag, put on the always-stylish hospital gown, have it sexily slide off one shoulder, gingerly try to make it fit better (remember, nearly every movement at this point is causing pain), then finally sit on the edge of the bed and wait for the doctor.
On the other side of the curtain is the old man I was directing earlier. He talks about burping a lot. I can’t quite tell what his issue is, but it seems related to not pooping because the doctor is telling him to make sure to drink lots of water and put some bran and green vegetables in his diet so he can go regularly. He mentions Metamucil as a last resort. He asks the old guy if he is feeling better now, and the old guy says yes. I am perhaps relieved (ho ho) to not get the exact details on why he feels better now. They then seem to repeat most of the conversation for reasons unknown.
The doctor comes in, asks me a bunch of questions, including if I have difficulty peeing or pooping. I say no to the former and that I hadn’t done the latter. I think he thought I hadn’t done the latter since Monday, which would be alarming. I assured him that I was “irregularly regular” (whatever that means) and that seemed good enough for him. He then did some pulling and prodding on my hands, arms, feet and legs. The left leg pull nearly caused a technicolor explosion to go off in my brain, as apparently the afflicted muscle directly connects to whatever muscles were being stretched in the left leg.
He said I had muscle spasms and gave me a prescription for an anti-inflammatory, and a pain reliever. He told me if I moved a lot, it would hurt more. Very logical. He told me to avoid laying down, as the muscle would stiffen. Also logical. I thanked him, got dressed and bumbled around for five minutes, walking into various rooms before finding my way back to the entrance. Some of these rooms were very close to people-holding-out-mangled-hands but I averted my eyes to avoid mental trauma to go with my physical trauma.
I headed to Save On Foods to get the prescription, and cookies.
While waiting at the pharmacy counter, a guy came up to me and asked a question.
It was the heart attack guy. He pointed to a shelf and asked which aspirin was the correct type to take if you were having a heart attack, because he was having a heart attack. He was actually pointing at the correct aspirin, so I confirmed this, he said thanks, gave me a fist bump and presumably paid for the aspirin and will go on to live a fruitful life.
I got my drugs and cookies and went home.
At home I discovered the pain killer is an opioid and it comes with a full sheet of dire warnings and precautions that basically amount to “BE CAREFUL WITH THIS KILLER MEDICINE, PAL.” The sheet mentions horrible side effects, addiction and uses the word “death” multiple times. I took one of these deadly opioid pills and my brain mushroomed through my skull and I saw the universe as I never have before.
Actually, nothing happened. It took awhile to kick in and now that it has, the pain is muted a bit, though that could also be the much less scary anti-inflammatory. I vow not to operate any heavy equipment, though, out of respect for all the dire warnings. We’ve hidden the keys to the bulldozer.
As I type this, I feel better than I did this morning and am cautiously hopeful that tomorrow will not be too bad, though there is no way in heck I will be running. I might look at treadmills, though. I’ve also promised to revive this year’s resolution to start stretching. I will be setting a stretch goal, if you will, because as the title suggests, I am as flexible as a plank of wood, and these sorts of muscle pulls/spasms are likely due to how inflexible I am. I need to stretch out. Literally. And I will.
Soon™.
In the meantime, I am quietly grateful that this emergency room visit was so surprisingly not bad. And I hope heart attack guy is okay.
