One of the few problems with having been born and raised in the 19th
century is the occasional attack of gout, one of which I seem to suffering from right now. (The offset of actually living in the 21st
century is that the naproxen is starting to kick in.) I never had a joint tapped to analyze the fluid, which is the actual sine qua non
for diagnosis, but the first major attack met the classical clinical findings of podagra, and the Rheumatologist & I agreed to just treat based on clinical findings rather than sticking a needle where I didn't need one stuck. (Which IMHO is any part of my body - I prefer being on the back/non-pointy end of needles.) Had a bit of ache yesterday morning, but it went away. Today full-blown, even if not at base of great toe. Might not be gout, could be some other arthritis/arthralgia. Could just be general I'm-achy-because-I'm-old-and-falling-
apart. But I'm going with gout.
On the more positive, spiritual side of things, "Happy St. Patrick's Day." (Yeah, the day was yesterday, and the parade is tomorrow, so I'm splitting the difference.) The most important part of the day (yesterday, the actual day) for me, beyond my being pseudo-Irish, is that is the anniversary (5th
anniversary this year) of when I met that wonderful woman who is now my wife-and-mother-of-my-children. (Yes, Nom, for those of you not keeping track.) We'd "met" and dialoged on line for weeks before that, but as ravensron
(and other lesser intellects) frequently points out, you haven't really met anyone until you've bet them IRL. Spekaing of the kids, they are adorable and all the other adjectives that doting parents say, and you're all probably tired of reading, even if entirely true in this case.
At the hospital the other day, someone was selling candy to help raise money for her son's high school something-or-other. I bought a box of chocolate mints (or minty chocolates, if you prefer). In my mind, that goes well with St. Paddy's Day. When I lived in Portsmouth NH, at one point I lived over a bakery. I was living with an exotic older woman musician, in one of the few true urban lofts in that small but lovely city. I forget the name of the bakery; it's not there now, although Ceres Bakery, my other favorite from that era, is still there. Anyhow, said bakery would do Leprechaun Brownies every year for 1-2 weeks leading up to St. P's Day. I adored them, often had one every day. After I'd moved up to Montreal, I was doing the long-distance relationship thing with the lovely lady for over a year. (That worked out as well as most long-distance relationships work. In the end, just as well, because (see 2nd paragraph) I'm now married to Nom.) I was down in Portsmouth the weekend before St. P's and decided to buy a whole tray of Leprachaun Brownies to bring back with me. I ended up scarfing down the entire tray in the course of 2 days, and then couldn't abide the taste of chocolate mint for over a decade. (No residual objection to exotic women, or even older ones, although Nom is in fact, much younger than I am.)