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I've spent most of the last 36 hours in bed, sleeping. When I haven't been sleeping, I've been, er, ill. Seems that my sweet eighth graders had to share their horrible stomach virus with me. I am, after all, bombarded with 1200 versions of whatever's going around, every day, so one of those little viral mutations is bound to think of me as prime real estate. I seem to be on the mend, as I am mostly alert enough to be bored. I really, really hope that Frank doesn't get this. Cleaning up after myself is bad enough, but we all know how he is about anything remotely yucky. I'm looking forward to the Academy Awards; hoping Sir Ian and FOtR kick butt! Speaking of boredom, took the "Which Poet are You?" test recommended by the Bookgirl; I am Sylvia Plath, Alfred, Lord Tennyson, and Maya Angelou, all rolled up into one weird Educait. Now ain't that a pickle? No wonder I'm sick; I'm overcrowded! Today's song: Leaving Las Vegas, Sheryl Crow Today's book: Clifford, the Big Red Dog |
 
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Sick,sick, sick!