Well, I had a plethora (don't you love that word?) of things that I could write about this month. The pickings were pretty generous. I could write shout food hangovers (C'mon, it's after the holidays and there's nothing else to do. You know you have them.). My kids still don't believe that I have them - wait till they're old - they'll find out (The mother's curse stretches pretty far.). And then there is the ever popular and vastly entertaining series of "Crazy Sharon" stories (my mother, and honest, I never call her that), but I'm not sure the world is ready for that yet.

The flu won out. People were dropping like flies where I work. And what could be more entertaining than being a prisoner of your bedroom for four days? (Actually, you know, it doesn't really sound that bad right now. Isn't it what all adults dream about, being sent to their rooms?)

The poetic injustice of my incarceration was that it happened on a weekend when there was a snow day attached to a three day weekend. I didn't even get the satisfaction of calling in sick and getting a free day off. Stinks, doesn't it?

Anyhow, I started off as a fairly reasonable, intelligent person. The first day, while my body continuously reminded me that there would be no comfortable position, I thought, well, this is O.K., there's some good shows on TV, I'll just enjoy the liberty to watch TV all day. It was British day on the History Channel and I do love those limeys, so I was pretty happy watching the whole progression of the English monarchy and learning the intricacies of how to make chain mail. I felt very lofty indeed.

Day two I switched to cooking shows. Now, I don't know how many of you watch the Food Channel, but it's addictive. On this particular weekend, they were running a "Two Fat Ladies" marathon. And if you don't know what I'm talking about, you have to see it for yourself. Clarissa Dickson-Wright and Jennifer Patterson (two more limeys, there was a theme evolving), the "Two Fat Ladies" put a whole new face on cooking. I mean, it's not every day that

you see some old broad smoking, drinking, checking out guys and riding a motorcycle with a sidecar while whipping up things like kedgeree. Needless to say, I admire them immensely.

On day three in my prison, I have to admit, I began slipping. Cop shows. "Cops" (Admit it, you sing along when "Bad Boys" starts playing), "American Justice," "Investigative Reports." Lots of cop shows, the more the better. This is the day that I also decided that I would do my immediate world a favor and wash my hair. I had that oh-so-attractive ambience of person-with-flu-who's-been-in- bed-way-too-long look. Very pleasant. But at this point, it's those little things that begin to mean so much.

Day four was when I knew that things had gone downhill completely. Although I didn't feel pain anymore, I still couldn't stand up without feeling dizzy, and frankly, even though I am an admitted addict, I was getting just the tiniest bit bored with TV. This was the day that I put nail polish on. You have to understand the significance of this. Nail polish and I don't mix. Anal retentive perfectionist that I am, I won't wear nail polish if I chip it. Well, obviously, I chip it as soon as I put it on. But I thought hey, what the heck, I can't move, how bad could it get? This was it. This was the secret to possessing great nails. Too dizzy to move, I actually kept it perfect for one whole night. I was quite proud of this. This was also the day that I found the real secret to the difference between men and women. During one of my innumerable hot baths, I was reading this magazine article about getting organized and it suddenly struck me like a thunderbolt. I have never seen a magazine or any other piece of literature tell a man to lay his clothes out the night before so that things will go more smoothly in the morning. Maybe it was just that days of doing nothing had emptied my head enough that I could see this clearly for the first time. I was positively incensed. Well, as incensed as you can get stumbling between your bedroom and bathroom as a pattern behavior. But this was it. This was that eureka thing staring me in the face. Men don't CARE about being organized in the morning. And WE do. O.K. so maybe I was a little delirious at the time. But at that point it made perfect sense, and I thought I was really on to something. It almost made being sick worthwhile. I now knew my cause - writing articles telling men how to be organized in the morning.

Since then, health has restored me to my usual level of normalcy. I suppose it would be fruitless to write those articles. I mean, after all, men don't really get the whole magazine thing anyway. But it's nice to know that even though I was sick for all that

time, sheer brilliance struck anyway. I guess when you've got it, you've just got it.