funnybone...

I'm not sure when it began, but it was probably when I was a small child. My brother and I find everything to have a touch of hilarity. Was it a defense mechanism? Was everything so serious with Mummy that we had to just giggle our way through the drama?

I don't know.

It hit me in the hospital when I realized that I was gaining quite the reputation as I was sprawled out in a hospital gown with cramps and the runs from a bout with E coli. I'm not sure why I find the need to be friendly with everyone but I guess people intrigue me, and I find great sport in breaking them in (or down).

Perhaps I do it out of boredom or the inner fear that this whole cancer-thing will get me eventually. It will, but at least I know how I'm going to die... and most likely... where. I feel the need to keep things cancer-light. I will probably die on that same oncology ward which is where they put me now even if I have an ingrown toenail. There are advantages to this. My lymphoma CT scan found that I had ingested E coli.

Curses.

The first thing I noticed was that I was on the oncology ward with all of the pink signs, and happy bulletin boards as if any of those would make a difference to one's mood. The next thing were the day nurses who looked like spray-tanned cheerleaders, painted nails-noir, pinky scrubs; a bubbly bunch of waitresses (my denial of the severity of the moment - again). I felt bad that I had to give the tanned, cheery beauties samples of everrrrrything  inside my body including... well, I won't go on. My son was appalled that I would consider ordering the food there afterwards, but I don't over-think things, and just dial up "room service."

Denial.

The funnybone aspect of the nurses was the change of the shifts nightly. There is a switcheroo of staff around 7PM and there was a pow-wow at the vestibule of my five-star room-with-a-view. One of the cheerleaders turned to me and whispered, "wait 'til you meet the night staff."

In anticipation and dread, I looked at the doorway not knowing what to expect. Sure enough, there were no more cheerleaders. Quasi-moto-ini with acne and Wicked Nurse of the Midwest with bad hair and a weight problem were there to take care of my every need apres-dusk. Was this just a coincidence? Uh... no - this was every night, different nurses. Apparently, pretty women are recommended for daytime and badly-groomed skags are hired for when you are asleep. Weird.

I found this offensive. I had to admit that the babes were accommodating enough but I understood immediately this this was not just something minor. This is a reflection of our society, and the HR at St.Vincents Hospital was no different. This trickles down from politics to school districts. It is in our Kindergartens where pretty girls get the attention - early. As a culture, our values are much more interested in Kardashian bodies, clear skin, toned abs and silky hair... not so interested in brains or skill anymore. I didn't have either as a child. I was never one of the beauty queens and my SAT's were on the low side. If my parents had given me something more it would have been to have MUCH better discipline with my grades, giving me a curfew, and not just concentrating all their effort on my brilliant older brother. My protege-brother was encouraged, but I was left to draw and play my xylophone.

I guess none of this was so funny, but at least I can play the xylophone.

Shelby and Dana have PhD's, but we don't really care. Just look at those tits.