House-less; Not Homeless

My friend, David Thompson, not-too-long ago lost his Wife. He retired from his job. And now he has sold his home. His life will change. He writes:

I will be house-less, but not homeless … What I want to do is go see friends and family. I want to spend a few days here and there, laughing and enjoying their company … I’ll look into a mobile-house. I don’t need much, just a galley, a place to clean myself, a place to sleep, and room to work. Much can be done outside (especially the cooking), but I want a warm, dry place for the Girl (his beloved dog) and myself.”

You can read about it in this post on his blog: A New Beginning.

Or, better yet, follow him on his new adventure on his blog Random Ruminations.

Toe Update

Merrell v Toes

It’s been two weeks since I broke my toe. I had a follow-up appointment with my doctor today.

Most of the discussion revolved around her pleading with me to continue wearing the walk boot, the cam walker, that keeps my toe straight and keeps me from bearing weight through it. (If you don’t remember, the toe is broken pretty badly. An orthopedic surgeon even recommended surgery for it – two screws.)

I go back in four weeks. I told her that I’d keep it on for at least two and, maybe, a firm-soled shoe for the next two (this was partially her plan).

The rest of my visit was a discussion of the shoe on my other foot. On my first visit, I was wearing a Vivo Barefoot. This visit I was wearing my Merrell Barefoot.

She said, “That shoe won’t do at all. You need something firm. Like a new pair of Asics. What is that shoe? It’s like not wearing anything.”

I told her the type and followed with, “It’s got a wide toe box, no arch support, the ball of my foot is inline with the heel. And no wacky heel training wheels either.”

“Well, that won’t do. You’re going to need something firm to support your toe,” she said.

I’d just as soon wear the boot than try to shove my feet into neuvo-sneakers. It’s been five years since I’ve had my foot in something like that – other than the odd wedding and couple of golf games. I’m not going to shove one in now.

I’d just as soon keep wearing the cam walker.

An Unfortunate Step

image

That is an x-ray of my broken big toe.

How did that happen? I’ve taken to saying, “I took an unfortunate step.”

If you really want to know, I’ll tell you. But it’s a little jiu-jitsu geeky … and I’m not going to explain the geekiness:

I was in top half guard. I’d already established top head-and-arm control with chest-to-chest pressure and was proceeding to misalign his spine to get around his legs. But then he made a little space and I’d lost chest-to-chest pressure.

When this happens, I don’t press the issue and force a technique, I move on. And stand.

My goal is start a modified toreando (“bull fight”) pass. As part of the pass, I must step forward with my left foot.

When I stepped forward, either my toe got caught in the mat or my balance was disturbed. Instead of landing on the ball of my foot, I landed on my toe. And it snapped.

The Urologist

My serum testosterone is a little on the low side. My doctor suggested I follow up with a urologist. So I went.

This post has nothing to do with “low t” or “hypogonadism” (that’s the referral diagnosis … stop laughing). What this is about is my serum PSA. PSA is “prostate-specific antigen.” It measures how healthy your prostate gland is.

Mine was healthy. Good.

“Good,” I thought. “That means he won’t have to palpate it.”

In order for a doctor to palpate your prostate gland, he must do so via the rectum which is just on the other side of  your anus. He needs to stick his finger in your ass. A fate, I’d determined, I’d avoided with a fantastic PSA result.

“Your blood work is good,” he said. “PSA is perfect. Even so, let’s do an exam.”

Whaaat?! An exam?! But … but … but … my PSA is perfect …

The next thing you know, I’m bent over the exam table with my pants around my ankle and my doctor is lubing up. So I did some math:

Let’s assume this particular doctor does five examinations each day, 5 days per week, 40 weeks per year. That means, in order to feed his family and pay for his car, he has to stick his finger into 1,000 assholes each year. At this point, I figured I win; I never have to stick my finger in anyone’s ass. Not once.

It’s thoughts like this that kept me out of the really good schools.