ick

Sick, sick, sick.  It stinks to be sick.  And I am so very rarely sick.  Being sick and thinking about being sick reminds me of a poem I had to memorize when I was in 5th grade.  It was "Sick" by Shel Silverstein.  The whole poem was the child naming off all her (quite imaginative) ailments, proving why she can't go to school today.  I've forgotten all the exact words, but I do remember the end:

"What?  What's that you say?  You say today is Saturday?  Goodbye!  I'm going out to play!" 

I wish I was sick on a workday, so I could call in sick!  Instead, I'm sick on a weekend.  And a 3-day weekend at that!  Stink, stink, stink.

I was able to get all the laundry done yesterday, and clean out my dresser, along with my side of the closet.  Good thing, because today after church I took a nap, watched football, and just relaxed.  I did, however, just wash all the dishes.  And there were a lot. 

Now I'm watching the Golden Globes.  Hoping for a little bit more of a productive day tomorrow.