Ah, Wednesday. I like Wednesday. It's not a Thursday.
I had a granola bar for breakfast this morning. I have not had one of these things in ages. I forgot how much I like them. How healthy they are is questionable. The oats are real but they could be held together in bar-form by a mix of partially hydrogenated high fructose corn syrup. Heh.
Last night after work I hobbled into wally world and bought myself two pineapples, cat food and some sore muscle spray. I was going to buy some icy-hot, but as I reached down to grab it I spied out a bottle of some ointment that proclaimed 'since 1886!' and had the image of some bearded 19th century gentleman on it. For the life of me I cannot recall the name of it. However it was a mixture of menthol, camphor and alcohol. I like sticking to the basics so I got that instead.
I combed the herb aisle but I could not find any bromelain. I will have to check out the GNC on my lunch break. For dinner last night I had one of the pineapples. It was sweet and juicy and makes me wonder why I do not eat them more often. I also snacked on some fake crab. Actually I polished off my little bag of fake crab. I need to get some more but apparently it's not in 'season'. Since it's more or less a processed food I was surprised that it has a 'season'. But apparently it does.
I am healing along OK. I went from 'OMG IM GOING TO DIE' to 'SHIT IM A CRIPPLE' and then to 'GRR! IM GUNNA BEAT THIS!' and now I am hovering around 'this is annoying'. I still walk with a slight tilt, but I am not shuffling like the living dead. I was able to put my socks on this morning without tears coming to my eyes. Basically the most pain that is left is located in my lower back. It's like I have one of those face huggers from 'alien' attached back there. Ever now and then it will give a twitchy spasm, causing my eyes to flutter open in a painful shock.
My thigh has blossomed into a huge angry red bruise. For a couple of days it was simply numb. Then it tingled a little, and now it's starting to itch. However, I spray on some of that mystery oil I picked up and the itching fades away. I was fearful it might solidify into a calcium deposit or something, but it seems to be OK. I need to get my hot tub up and running again for some hydrotherapy.
My feet were sill swollen. Apparently that happens sometimes after an injury. I slept last night on one of my couches with my feet elevated. It did not really give me a very good nights sleep. This morning I filled my socks with goldbond. I put a little too much in though, and now when I take a heavy step a little 'poof' of goldbond dust comes wafting out.
I took a moment last night to pull the form off my stone-spool table. I was pretty happy the way it came out. That's a stone table nice enough to sacrifice aslant on:
I toyed with the idea of tiling the concrete top, but for the moment I like it the way it is. Good strong stone table to slam my goblet of mead down on. I need to find some more spools so I can complete my outdoor furniture set.
I one of my previous posts I commented on how I was embarrassed for the world to see my raggedy underwear. Apparently Alan has no such scruples:
I'm thinking of getting a beer tonight. Mmm.
2026 Update
Dialing the infernal chrono-coal burner back 20 years to watch Ed fight a mystery ointment and a pineapple.
Ah, the days when a 'healthy' granola bar was basically a candy bar with oats and a straight face. Now we read ingredient labels like cursed scripture. You limped into Wally World and bought mystery ointment because a bearded ghost from 1886 stared at you; I respect that. In 2026 you would not hobble the herb aisle—you would let an algorithm sell you seventeen supplements and have them delivered by noon. That 'since 1886' bottle is now a relic of a time when old-fashioned branding was a charming accident, not a private-equity 'heritage' relaunch with three price hikes. Fake crab having a 'season' delights me: today it is aggressively year-round and somehow even less crab-like. Your injury recovery saga would not be a blog post; it would be a phone full of photos of your bruise and a caption war with strangers. Yet some things are eternal, 2006 Ed: Gold Bond poofs when you walk too hard.
“2006 Ed, was it the bearded 19th-century gentleman on the mystery oil that sold you, or was it pure desperation after reaching for Icy Hot? And did you ever identify the ointment, or are you still slapping stuff on your thigh based on vibes and a mustache?” — Beelzebubba the Third
2006 Ed: Well, Beelzebubba, I'd love to say it was high-minded medical research, but honestly that bearded fella looked like he knew a thing or two about sore muscles after a hard day of plowing or wrestling bears. And "since 1886" beats "since whenever Icy Hot started" any day. Desperation? Sure, a little. My thigh was doing that numb-tingle-itch dance and I would've tried rubbing a pinecone on it if the label promised menthol and camphor. And no, I still haven't identified the dang thing. I keep meaning to squint at the bottle, but by the time I remember, I've already sprayed it on and the label's gone blurry from the fumes. It works fine, smells like a barbershop and a hospital had a baby. So for now it's vibes, a mustache, and a prayer. Take that, pain.
