Who is your daddy, and what does he do?

Pull up a chair for another entertaining episode of American Stupidity.

When we last left our heroine, while applying her makeup in the rearview mirror, she discovered that her forehead suddenly had more acne than that of a pubescent male. Her co-workers, however, informed our fearless Aurora that she had a case of the dreaded poision ivy.

This evening, I was sitting down to eat dinner (WW past with low-cal meatballs and sauce), when I noticed that my tongue and the roof of my mouth was itching. My chest also had begun to feel tight. Since I had never had Poison Ivy before, and  I am susceptible to asthma episodes, my mother suggested that I go to the hospital to get checked out, in case I had inhaled the poison ivy oil somehow.

Now, I understand that triage nurses deal with hundreds of patients a day. But, c'mon, Poision Ivy is pretty distinctive looking. That didn't matter to her. In the span of five minutes, Miss Triage nurse diagnosed me with chicken pox and heartburn.

In addition, she seemed convinced that I was pregnant. She must have asked me 50 times if I was. Finally, I gave up, and told her a lie, and that I was carrying the son of Christ. She wasn't too pleased with my "mockery of the miracle of Immaculate Conception," but she didn't ask me again if I was pregnant.

I do have poison Ivy in my mouth so I'm a wonderful bout of prednisone. I felt so puny though. In the section next to me was a 9-year old boy who had fallen thorugh a glass table. He was screeching bloody murder as the doctor cleaned and sutured it. After, however, he started watching Animal Planet, and finishing his Happy Meal.  The resilency of children, physically and mentally, never ceases to arrange me.