Sickie McSickerson

Growing up, I tended to get sick a lot -- caught whatever was going around. My mom had to work, so when I was sick it meant either hiring a baby sitter or missing work. Understandably, it was frustrating for her when I was sick on a weekday. The problem was, mom had a hard time hiding her frustration from me. I remember she would come to my bedroom door, and once I had finally convinced her that I was really sick and not just faking it (I did my share of that too), she would sigh, maybe even give a little growl, Marge Simpson style, and then leave to make whatever arrangements she could for taking care of me. Several years ago, I told Mom that all I ever wanted was some sympathy, which of course made her feel really bad for something she couldn't do anything about now. (We have a tendency to do that to our parents, don't we?) After that, Mom started saying, in very sympathetic tones, "Poor Joanna" every time I had a sniffle. Frankly, it was just what I wanted to hear. In fact, I have all my friends saying it now too.

Unfortunately, my roommate, who I count on to fill in for my mom when I'm sick, is still in Japan. And I've been sick all week. On the couch -- the chaise, to be exact -- making a permanent indentation in the cushion. If anyone out there needs an update on any of the new shows or soaps (CBS soaps only, I'm afraid -- I do have my standards), just drop me a note and I'll fill you in.

But no "poor Joanna" all week. Not one utterance. So I'm feeling very sorry for myself. Every now and then I say it to myself, but it's just not the same.

Anyway, it'll be interesting to see how I do when I resume my training. I haven't run in five days -- have barely moved in four. My brother, who has run two marathons, assures me that I will catch up.



Oh, I gotta go -- Gil Grissam is taking soil samples. My mom loves this stuff. But I'm sure she's not watching CSI tonight. I'm sure she's sitting at home worrying about me, muttering quietly, "Poor Joanna."