I had to fill out a million pages of information and sign away my rights to privacy so I could have my evil ways investigated in a background check for my new job. You know, just in case I'd decided to go on a wild crime spree in the two weeks I've been unemployed. They asked the names of work supervisors I'd worked with over 11 years ago. And these were the retail jobs. Anyone who's ever worked in retail knows the crazy musical chairs of going from store to store searching for that elusive bigger commission check. So not only could I not remember any of their names, they wouldn't be there anymore anyway. The only names I could remember were my last manager (Non-retail. And good he was memorable since my job with him just barely ended) and also my brother's name dating back to the time when I worked in the family biz, and he was the general manager. But judging how my memory has been lately, it's probably a triumph that I remembered his name, too.
It was a long, boring hour spent in the Volt agency office filling out paperwork, signing forms, calling people to get correct addresses, etc. At last I was finished, and out the door to my next appointment: the drug test.
I parked in a space that was marked "20 minute parking only." Because... that's all it should have taken. I had my order form ready, I'd made an appointment the previous day. I was PREPARED. First I was asked which Volt office had ordered the test. Umm.... Minneapolis? Does that help? They couldn't find me. I supplied the name and phone number of the person who had placed the order and made the appointment, so they called old Darla up. Oh dear... she'd "forgotten" to enter me into the system. This was after I'd been sitting there for 45 minutes amongst all manner of tatooed, skinhead types who were there for some kind of Workman's Comp treatment. I felt a tad out of my element since I'm a middle aged girl (is that an oxymoron?) with no tatts or piercings. I tried to sit there and be invisible. I read my Kindle. I played Angry Birds.
Turns out we were waiting for Darla to fax some info over. And then we had to wait for the drug test nurse to get back from lunch. Finally, after an hour and a half, I was called to the back. I had to stuff my purse into a locker so I couldn't, you know, use someone else's "specimen" to cover up my heavy drug use. I was handed The Cup and told I was not allowed to flush afterwards. ??? For some reason that would invalidate the sample.
So in I went. Relax. Relax.... RELAX. Just let it go.
And then I did. All over my hand. Why is it so hard to judge where that pee is going to hit?? Plus I panic when I start to pee because I'm afraid I won't get the cup there in time to catch it, or I'll miss it or something, and then what'll I do? When I told my husband about it, he had a hard time understanding it too, but then I reminded him that it's easy to hit the cup when you can aim at it with a hose. Try doing it blindfolded like a girl and it's not so easy.
So.... yuck... I'm trying to mop up around the cup and towel off my dripping hand, and all I can think about is getting out of there and washing my hands. Scrubbing my hands. Of course there's no sink in the bathroom - that would encourage cheating of some sort I'm guessing. While the nurse labeled my offering, I was scouring the skin off my hands.
I'm glad I decided to get it all over with in one day. I'd have hated to spread the aggravation over two days. It was all I could do to drive by the Sugar Rush Bakery on my way home without stopping for a chocolate covered Oreo. Today I felt that I was entitled to a treat, but you'll be pleased to know that I persevered and went home and ate tuna instead. Not a fair tradeoff, but life is often unkind, isn't it?
Besides, I have my team building meeting with my new group of work buddies in a couple of weeks and I need to lose about 20 pounds by then because we're going here and I'm not sure if it will involve lake activities. It's either lose 20 or wear Spanx in the Minnesota summer.
Mostly I'm just hoping I won't have to share a room. I'm hoping to keep them ignorant to the fact that I sometimes snore. I didn't believe L when he told me I snore... zzzZZZZZZZzzzzz..., but then I woke myself up doing it a few times, so I can't deny it anymore. Getting older definitely has it's ugly side, but I find I've also gained more confidence and yes, a certain poise and assurance as I've aged (except when I sleep, apparently...) Still, after all these years of living intimately with myself, you'd think I would have been more coordinated at peeing in a cup.