You're In!
WARNING: the following rather longish entry contains the words urine and urinate with rather alarming frequency. If such words will offend you, read no further.
Yesterday I drove into work, beginning my shift an hour early. When I arrived at the visitor center and walked in I was acutely aware of three things;
1) I had a nine hour shift to work.
2) I had about 20 hours worth of work that I needed to get done during that shift
and
3) My bladder was quite full.
I was rapidly proceeding to the restroom when my boss blocked my path and handed me a manila envelope marked ‘confidential.’ He informed me that mine was the lucky name this week to be drawn from the state employees hat of random drug testing. He told me I needed to proceed, with no delay, to a lab across town which would take a sample of my urine in order to prove my own righteous purity and cleanliness.
*I informed my boss that I felt a little too drunk to drive myself there. I asked if he would give me a ride and, upon arrival, loan me six ounces of urine for a little while, as the cocaine, PCP and psychedelic mushrooms I had finished last weekend might still be present in trace amounts*
(Ok, everything in the preceding paragraph marked between the *s is a blatant lie. While my boss has a sense of humor, I would never say such a thing to him. The truth is that I took the manila envelope and walked out of the visitor center mumbling petty complaints about the loss of my civil rights and the woes of beaurocracy.)
I proceeded to the lab immediately. I did not bother to use the bathroom, as I knew that when I got there the first thing they would ask me to do would be to urinate in a cup. I am an old road tripper from way back, and bladder control is an old friend to me.
I arrived at the lab about thirty minutes later and signed in. The lab I had been sent to does one thing and one thing only; it collects urine. Every one of the dozen people in front of me was eagerly awaiting their chance to urinate into a cup as well. What joy . . . what fellowship. Everyone stared straight ahead and concentrated on not interacting. One woman two seats down kept lamenting; she was here for her second try. On her first try, she had not been able to give a ‘sufficient sample’ and had been sent back into the lobby to drink copious amounts of water in preparation for a second go at it.
Her lamentations were making people nervous and they kept going to the water cooler to get more water. As for myself, I had little to no fear; I now had an absolute need to urinate in a way that only a firehouse could find envy for. I waited there for another 75 minutes before I was called forward to donate my precious fluids to the cause.
The lady who took me ‘behind the locked door’ was professional, enthusiastic and courteous, which was, I must say, a bit of a surprise coming from someone who collects urine for a living. She filled out the paperwork quickly and efficiently and then proceeded to prepare me for the . . . donation.
They made me take off my duty belt before going into the bathroom to fill the cup. When I asked why this was necessary the nice woman informed me, kind of apologetically, that it was to insure that I was not hiding anyone else’s urine in my gear. How I would contain urine in my gun or handcuff carrier she could not say, but apparently it was standard procedure, so I followed it.
Moooo. Moooo.
She handed me a cup with a little red mark at the 2 ounce line and asked if I felt I could fill the cup to that mark. I confirmed that yes, I was quite sure I could. (I failed to mention that by now I could have likely filled up the 44 ounce ‘thirstbuster’ on her colleague’s desk. It seemed an unnecessary statement to make)
And I did. (Fill the little cup, that is, not the thirstbuster) Then I got to go back to work, with only about 2 ½ hours of my shift wasted (dare I say excreted) away.
Here is the funniest thing about all this to me; I was nervous the whole time. I don’t do drugs, and I am therefore quite sure that there are none in my blood stream. And yet I was nervous. My body fluids are now on their way to a lab somewhere where someone I do not know will perform tests I am not familiar with and decide whether I am fit to keep my job. And even though I know perfectly well that I am fit to do so, I was nervous. Still am, a little.
My trust in the system erodes away a little more every year. It trickles away from me like . . . well, you know.
Yesterday I drove into work, beginning my shift an hour early. When I arrived at the visitor center and walked in I was acutely aware of three things;
1) I had a nine hour shift to work.
2) I had about 20 hours worth of work that I needed to get done during that shift
and
3) My bladder was quite full.
I was rapidly proceeding to the restroom when my boss blocked my path and handed me a manila envelope marked ‘confidential.’ He informed me that mine was the lucky name this week to be drawn from the state employees hat of random drug testing. He told me I needed to proceed, with no delay, to a lab across town which would take a sample of my urine in order to prove my own righteous purity and cleanliness.
*I informed my boss that I felt a little too drunk to drive myself there. I asked if he would give me a ride and, upon arrival, loan me six ounces of urine for a little while, as the cocaine, PCP and psychedelic mushrooms I had finished last weekend might still be present in trace amounts*
(Ok, everything in the preceding paragraph marked between the *s is a blatant lie. While my boss has a sense of humor, I would never say such a thing to him. The truth is that I took the manila envelope and walked out of the visitor center mumbling petty complaints about the loss of my civil rights and the woes of beaurocracy.)
I proceeded to the lab immediately. I did not bother to use the bathroom, as I knew that when I got there the first thing they would ask me to do would be to urinate in a cup. I am an old road tripper from way back, and bladder control is an old friend to me.
I arrived at the lab about thirty minutes later and signed in. The lab I had been sent to does one thing and one thing only; it collects urine. Every one of the dozen people in front of me was eagerly awaiting their chance to urinate into a cup as well. What joy . . . what fellowship. Everyone stared straight ahead and concentrated on not interacting. One woman two seats down kept lamenting; she was here for her second try. On her first try, she had not been able to give a ‘sufficient sample’ and had been sent back into the lobby to drink copious amounts of water in preparation for a second go at it.
Her lamentations were making people nervous and they kept going to the water cooler to get more water. As for myself, I had little to no fear; I now had an absolute need to urinate in a way that only a firehouse could find envy for. I waited there for another 75 minutes before I was called forward to donate my precious fluids to the cause.
The lady who took me ‘behind the locked door’ was professional, enthusiastic and courteous, which was, I must say, a bit of a surprise coming from someone who collects urine for a living. She filled out the paperwork quickly and efficiently and then proceeded to prepare me for the . . . donation.
They made me take off my duty belt before going into the bathroom to fill the cup. When I asked why this was necessary the nice woman informed me, kind of apologetically, that it was to insure that I was not hiding anyone else’s urine in my gear. How I would contain urine in my gun or handcuff carrier she could not say, but apparently it was standard procedure, so I followed it.
Moooo. Moooo.
She handed me a cup with a little red mark at the 2 ounce line and asked if I felt I could fill the cup to that mark. I confirmed that yes, I was quite sure I could. (I failed to mention that by now I could have likely filled up the 44 ounce ‘thirstbuster’ on her colleague’s desk. It seemed an unnecessary statement to make)
And I did. (Fill the little cup, that is, not the thirstbuster) Then I got to go back to work, with only about 2 ½ hours of my shift wasted (dare I say excreted) away.
Here is the funniest thing about all this to me; I was nervous the whole time. I don’t do drugs, and I am therefore quite sure that there are none in my blood stream. And yet I was nervous. My body fluids are now on their way to a lab somewhere where someone I do not know will perform tests I am not familiar with and decide whether I am fit to keep my job. And even though I know perfectly well that I am fit to do so, I was nervous. Still am, a little.
My trust in the system erodes away a little more every year. It trickles away from me like . . . well, you know.