About Me

Woman, reader, writer, wife, mother of two sons, sister, daughter, aunt, friend, state university professor, historian, Midwesterner by birth but marooned in the South, Chicago Cubs fan, Anglophile, devotee of Bruce Springsteen and the 10th Doctor Who, lover of chocolate and marzipan, registered Democrat, practicing Christian (must practice--can't quite get the hang of it)--and menopausal.
Names have been changed to protect the teenagers. As if.

Tuesday, May 4, 2010

But I've never had a serving wench

In an earlier post I wrote about my weirdly sore foot. Now it's not only sore, it's puffy and it throbs. "Throbs"--I love that word. You say it, and it sounds just like what it means: thrrrOOOBBsssss: WAH wah WAH wah WAH. . .

Keith thinks I have gout.

Gout. GOUT!! Gout. How can I have gout? Eighteenth-century English squires in velvet reading jackets who consume two bottles of port every night and feast on pheasant and sheep's head and finger up their serving wenches get gout. Feminist historians who drink soy milk and eat vegan chili and have no serving wenches do not get gout.

Do they?
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