May 10, 2004

Measles, mumps and purple bumps.

I think, she said bravely, I'll probably survive.

In the scheme of not-feeling-well, I'm doing pretty well. In the scheme of feeling well and being at work, I'm sulking and my head hurts and my stomach is unhappy and my throat hurts and I feel generally somewhat dazed. Being at a sort-of-reassembled-but-not-really makeshift desk in the newly razed front corner of the office isn't helping, since it's loud with the wall gone and everything I'm used to having neatly arranged at my desk is now piled in a teetering and chaotic stack 4 feet to my left.

Dazed. Razed. Fazed. It would be great if I knew how this being-sick-and-not-at-work business works around here.

I suspect that finding out may be in my future.

Posted by dianna at May 10, 2004 11:04 AM

I heard that you were feeling ill,
Headache, fever, and a chill,
I came to help restore your pluck,
'Cause I'm the nurse who loves to comment on your page.

Posted by: didofoot at May 10, 2004 11:11 AM

perhaps it's time to write your will
or maybe you could just take a pill.
to working today you could say, 'fuck',
fly free, fly free little birdie, from your cage.

Posted by: michele at May 10, 2004 11:31 AM

Spots? Spots?!

I'm so ashamed, and well should I be. I know my Shel Silverstein better than that. It's purple bumps, thankyouverymuch.

You two are awesome. Are you sharing a brain today?

Posted by: Dianna at May 10, 2004 01:35 PM

the brain inside, we often do
have cause to share between one or two

a lesson learned is soon forgot
but never shall we call our kettle black or our pot
for within the pan of brain we share more than one ought.

Posted by: michele at May 10, 2004 01:48 PM

There stands the rock, the hard place; here stand I,
Uncertain what response I should pursue.
Admit we share a brain? But that's a lie.
Deny it? But that seems a little rude...

I know Dianna feels a little sick;
This poetry can only make her sicker.
Already wish I'd picked a limerick,
Or that my wit was just a little quicker.

Poor D, I never meant to bother you.
This fucking sonnet has no purpose in it.
But now I'm almost done, let's suffer through,
Just one more wretched rhyme will let me win it.

D's wishing for some tea, a quilt of cambric,
And not this damn pentameter iambic.

Posted by: didofoot at May 10, 2004 02:18 PM

Well done, Dido.
Well done all, in fact.
I am always in favor of rhyming when possible.

Dianna, I hope you feel better soon. Go home and climb in bed as soon as you can. That'll help.

Posted by: kati at May 10, 2004 02:26 PM

There once was a sick woman named Dianna,
Who was not one bit a Pollyanna.
When she was sick,
She grabbed that cold quick.
And gave it a kick in the .... nick of time.

Thank you. I'll be here all the week.

Posted by: Jacob at May 10, 2004 06:15 PM