Getting older is not for whiners. Since my late 40s, midlife health concerns have included thyroid imbalance, elevated blood pressure and creeping weight gain. A couple of mammograms looked iffy but turned out to be OK. The asthma could be better.
Mostly I’ve handled these issues with equanimity. But that was before the doctor ordered me to spread my own poo on a chemically treated card.
A pint of blood, that is. Tuesday, June 14 is World Blood Donor Day 2011. I’m just putting the idea out there, although I don’t expect everyone to rush the bloodmobile van all at once,
In fact, I think you shouldn’t donate tomorrow.
I never cared much for yogurt. It generally seemed too sour to me, unless it was turned into tzatziki sauce on a gyro sandwich.
Apparently I just never had the right kind of yogurt.
I’d heard that the homemade version was better than the commercial kind. I’d also read about people making yogurt in a slow cooker. After looking online for instructions I settled on a slight variation of the process described at A Year of Slow Cooking.
And then I improved on it.
When I got off the Megabus from Cardiff to London I was weary from a couple of days of hard walking. Fortunately there are markets in Victoria Station so I picked up a bread “baton” (larger than a hoagie roll, smaller than a baguette), some sliced ham and a single carrot.
Back at the hostel I pulled a Rubbermaid container from my suitcase and took out packets of butter and spicy brown mustard to garnish a simple ham sandwich. The carrot provided a bit of crunch. I finished up with an apple and a small container of Devon Custard Rice I’d bought previously.
Sure, I could made the sandwich without mustard and butter, but it wouldn’t have tasted nearly as good. And eating Devon Custard Rice with my fingers would have been the stickiest of wickets.
When I go to Alaska, I travel with mayonnaise. On all my trips I pack some or all of the following items — small, light, extremely practical things that are worth many times their weight in frequent-flier miles. They don’t take up much room but they pack a mighty impact.
Right in the middle of a recent deadline I developed a real blinder of a headache. Rather than take an aspirin or ibuprofen I drank a glass of water – and felt better almost immediately.
I won’t say I was actually dehydrated, but I might have been on the way. Or maybe I wasn’t. All I know is that water made me feel better. It often does.
It was also, of course, free.
Whether your headache is caused by incipient dehydration, stress, lack of sleep, lousy working conditions or marriage, try one of these no-drug methods to relieve the pain.
As I got off the Underground an elderly woman was slowly trailing behind me, pulling a suitcase. I got one of those little mental flashes that said, “Let her go. Watch her.” So I stopped and fiddled with my pack and suitcase until she was in front of me.
The woman went around a corner and I lost sight of her briefly. Then I saw this flash of movement off to my left. It was a middle-aged guy making a Superman-like leap up onto the escalator. I swear he made five steps in one bound.
It was to rescue the elderly woman, who had fallen backwards and was lying all twisted as the escalator moved her slowly, inexorably upwards. She hadn’t made a sound.
Last summer I did a guest post over at Bargaineering called “Sick happens: How to prepare for an illness or injury.” For the past week I’ve been in the grip of la grippe and practicing what I preached.
It’s not actually la grippe, but rather some other kind of virus: sore throat, headache, malaise and a cough that snaps me forward like a willow tree in a high wind. I’m acutely aware that my Aunt Elna was alleged to have broken ribs while coughing.
At least I was ready for it.
It’s 6:20 p.m. and I’m sitting in a wheelchair at the Bob Hope Airport, foot in one of those big boots and crutches nearby. It’s just a bad sprain, nothing broken.
Because I couldn’t walk through the scanner, I got one of those “special” pat-downs. The TSA woman was very pleasant and professional, but after that encounter I think she should buy me dinner.
And the plane is delayed. Sigh. They’re hoping it will leave at 7 p.m. (Original departure time was 4:30 p.m.)
In mid-May I wrote about carelessness in “Inattention can cost you. Ask me how I know.” I noted that it’s important to focus on what you’re doing, lest you do something like break a toe.
Last night I lost focus, and I hurt myself. On vacation. Dammit.
Wish I had a piece of the hosiery industry in Anchorage, where you remove your footwear after you enter someone’s house. Knowing you’ll be unshod regularly means making sure your feet are decently covered.
Once when I was an Anchorage Daily News reporter I took off my shoes at an interviewee’s home and discovered a rent in one sock. It’s hard to look professional when your big toe has its eye to the peephole.
Obviously Alaska is not the only place where indoor shoe-wearing is frowned upon. People in other cultures live this way too – and so, increasingly, do U.S. residents, as a quick Internet search indicates. Sometimes it’s because they want the carpet to last longer. Sometimes it’s because they don’t want spike-heel scratches on the hardwood.
And sometimes it’s to keep you from tracking in poisons.