Urin-alyze This

In order to pass the background check for my new job, I had to jump through several hoops. Verify employment at all of my previous posts, confirm my citizenship in these great United States of America, and provide a urine sample to ensure that there was nothing illicit affecting my abilities to serve the company.

A woman called me at work one day to set up the appointment. We set the date and she rattled off a laundry list of do’s and don’ts:

“Drink plenty before you get here, although we do have a water cooler in the lobby”

“If you’re ready when you get here, plan for a half hour. If you’re not prepared, bring a book, ‘cause it could be a while.”

“Don’t try to pull something over on us, ‘cause we’ve seen it all.”
And the appointment was set.

“Anyone every tell you...?"

I pulled up to the building a few minutes before my allotted toilet appointment. It was my lunch break, but I’d refrained from eating, opting for a rigorous liquid diet all morning – four cups of piping hot coffee and close to half a gallon of cold water. I had yet to break the seal, so was primed for pee. This was going to be a piece of cake.

Upon entering the sterile gray lobby, I was met with the disinterested stare of two men in dirty camouflage hats, crusted work boots, and skeptical eyes. One was wearing a tee shirt that said “This Union Delivers” and the other was wearing a denim collared shirt that should have been retired before I was born. I approached the glass window and introduced myself.

“Hi, my name is Chris Walljasper. I’m here for a one o’clock…urinalysis.” My voice went from hushed to barely audible as I squeaked out the final syllable.

“What’s your name again?” Her voice was flat, and she didn’t so much as look up from her computer.

“Chris…Walljasper.”

“Sign in and sit down. We’ll call you when we’re ready for you.”

So I signed. And sat. As I pulled up the AP news on my phone, I couldn’t help but overhear the two men across the small lobby talking. It seemed that I was the focus of their murmuring. Soon I heard,

“Anyone every tell you that you look like Jim Carrey?”

“Yeah man! You could be his little brother or something!”

I sighed and looked up from my phone.

“Every day of my life.” As I said it, I briefly considered an alternative answer.

“Really? You’re the first person who’s ever told me that. Weird.” With such an answer, I imagine a much different conversation would have unfolded. He'd say eagerly,

“Yeah, it’s spot on. I’m surprised no one’s ever said that to you before.”

“Hmmm. I dunno. Do you watch a lot of Jim Carrey movies? Maybe you just know him better than most. Don't tell me you're a member of his fan club!”

“Nah man, I haven’t seen many, but he was a hoot in Dumb and Dumber. And Ace Ventura was pretty funny! You seen that one? Where he’s looking for the dolphin?”

“No, I haven’t seen that one.” I grit my teeth. Maybe it would have been better to tell the truth.

“Really?! Man it was funny. The Mask, that’s another one he did.”

“The Mask? I think I’ve heard of that one. He has a dog, right?”

“Yeah. He finds this wooden mask that has super-powers, and it turns him all green and shit. Pretty funny stuff.”

Yeah. Hilarious.
 
Peeing into the Wind
 
Finally the aloof woman at the window called my name. I went through a heavy wooden door, passed through a long hallway filled with exam rooms, and was met by a robust woman who's demeanor dwarfed her impressive physical size. She led me into a large sterile room that was identical to any you'd find in a doctors office, save the presence of a bathroom stall. It was as if someone had removed a chunk of the public toilet down the hall and planted it in this doctors office. The woman opened a metal locker and ordered me to empty my pockets. I thought I'd been thorough, but Nurse No Nonsense proceeded to give me a quick pat down to ensure that I was not hiding any foreign pee on me.
 
I wasn't.
 
When she came across my insulin pump attached to my belt, she raised an eyebrow in suspicion.
 
"It's my pancreas."
 
The second eyebrow joined its mate. She did not see the humor.
 
"My insulin pump. I'm diabetic. See, it's attached to my stomach?" pulled my shirttails out of my pants and pointed to the site on my abdomen.
 
"Alright. I guess you probably don't have any urine in that thing."
 
She ambled over to a cabinet against the far wall, and opened both doors to reveal stacks of clear plastic cups, all wrapped tight in plastic to ensure sterility. Everything was so sterile in this office.
 
"Choose your cup."
 
"Don't you have anything in blue?"
 
Not even a smile. "It's federal law that you pick out your own cup. So get over here and pick yourself out a cup." Her tone left little room for further remark. I grabbed a cup and handed it to the woman.
 
"Alright. Get in there, fill it to this line. You have enough to get there? Otherwise, we'll wait. No sense in wasting what you got if it ain't enough."
 
"Oh I think I can get there. I can probably fill two of these things."
 
"Well, we only need one. You got anything else, it goes in the toilet."
 
I entered the stall, and was taken aback by all the signage. There were a dozen brightly colored, laminated signs, all citing federal and state codes regarding my urine and its use. I didn't realize anyone was so interested in controlling my pee.
 
"It is unlawful to knowingly provide urine for any party that is not the bearer of those fluids..."
 
"Upon completion of urination, remove sample from stall without flushing..."
 
"If while urinating, a burning sensation occurs..."
 
Enough reading. I undid the buckle of my belt, unzipped, and began to fill. Within seconds, I'd reached the top of the cup and deposited the remainder of the fluid into the toilet bowl. I sat the cup on the back of the toilet, redressed myself, and as I reached for the cup of amber urine, I did what any respectful person would do.
 
I flushed the toilet.
 
As my hand moved toward the silver lever, there was an internal struggle taking place in my brain. My instincts thrust my left hand toward the stool as it had done for years. But as soon as my mind realized what was happening, it began sending everything it could at my arm.
 
"Cease and desist! Retreat! Evasive maneuvers! NOOOOO!"
 
But it was too late. As the water rushed into the bowl, a low groan could be heard from the other side of the partition,
 
"Oh no you didn't!"
 
Yes. Yes I did.
 
I walked out of the stall like a wounded puppy. Without even turning to look at me, the nurse said,
 
"Pour it out."
 
"What?! Why? It's perfectly good pee!"
 
"It don't matter. Pour it out. Federal regulations say that if you flush before I see it, I can't accept your pee."
 
I dumped my pee, then began collecting my belongings. As I refilled my pockets, the nurse explained what the next steps were.
 
"Go out, drink about fifteen cups of water. Wait a half hour, then let the receptionist know."
 
The Waiting Game
 
And so I drank. And I waited. And I drank some more. As I sat there, glancing at my phone with mild irritation, A family fell through the door. More accurately, a loose collaboration of people whom I assumed were all-too-closely related came bustling through the door. The two women wore clothes that fit them too snuggly, showing off overly tan bits of rolling flesh that couldn't be harnessed by fibers natural or synthetic. The children bore untamed hair and tee shirts that boldly advertised remains from their lunch - ketchup and sweet and sour sauce, as far as I could tell. From the giant vats of cola the women carried in, it was clear that McDonalds was the purveyor of the stains. Slipping in behind them was a tired looking man in a torn shirt and work boots. He seemed as though this was the last place in the world he'd rather be. In that we were kindred spirits.

Against all my might and better judgment, I overheard the women as they spoke to the receptionist in unnecessarily loud volumes.

"We're here for a paternity test."

With that, I forced myself to concentrate on what the Associated Press was saying about the economy. Blocking out these women's flippant remarks about baby-daddies and child support, I failed to notice the presence of a ragged little girl in the seat next to me.

"Whatcha reading?"

I glanced to my right and discovered a little girl, with wild brown hair that smelled mildly of chlorine and eyes that sparkled with an ornery enthusiasm that overcame any fear of the unknown man in the waiting room.

"The news."

"I can read. I read all the time for school."

"Oh yeah? What have you read lately?"

"I've read lots!" She hopped off the black plastic chair and bounded over to a table that held a smattering of golf magazines and bedraggled children's books. From the stack she pulled an old Dr. Seuss. Horton Hears a Who was scrawled whimsically across the front. She clambered back onto the seat beside me and began flipping pages.

Unsure of what to do, I resumed my article on Congress and the debt ceiling, all the while aware of the little girl reading tales from Whoville beside me. Every so often as she turned the pages, I caught her glancing up at me with a hopeful grin, waiting for a chance to show me how well she could comprehend this tome. She'd look at me for only a second, then dive back into the book, tracing the lines of rhyming text with her tiny index finger and mouthing the words in a barely-audible voice.

After a few seconds, I could feign indifference no longer. I watched the child muscle through a bit more of the book and when she looked up again, I asked,

"How is it?"

"It's great! I LOVE Dr. Seuss!" She almost shot through the ceiling as she beamed. Then back into the book.

I smiled, then crossed the waiting room to the water cooler that I was single-handedly emptying with my bladder-filling prison sentence. After about seven more cups of tepid water, I returned back to my seat next to my new best friend. She'd finished the Seuss and was on to an issue of Ladies Home Journal that looked to be from 2006.

"I'm going to be the flower girl in my mommies wedding!" She beamed as she imparted this fact.

"Oh yeah? When is that?" I asked, afraid of travelling too far into this conversation.

"Next Saturday. I have a dress, and shoes, and a basket! Wanna see my walk?"

Without hearing my response, she proceeded to march across the waiting room, dramatically stretching first her left arm, then her right arm. It was as if she were endowing life-giving bread to the starving masses, the amount of care that was placed in each little swell of the arm. The woman whom I can only assume was the blushing bride-to-be bellowed,

"Knock it off! He doesn't want to hear about it! Come sit over here now!"

Just then, I decided I'd go for round two with the plastic cup. As I strode by the women, I indiscriminately muttered,

"Congratulations on your upcoming....wedding." The words trailed off as I ran out of things to say.

Upon reentering the room, the same nurse walked me through the same routine, as if I hadn't been there thirty minutes prior. I picked my cup, I filled it, and as I finished, I began to reach for the lever.

But this time, my brain won the day. I strolled proudly from that stall, bearing my cup of urine high.

"My urine, milady."

And with that, I strode out of that office a free and empty-bladdered man.

I also left that office a little more humble, and glad that I'd been able to sit and read with a little flower girl from Davenport, Iowa.

The Babies are Coming for You

This is a warning going out to anyone who considers themselves cool, tough, or bad-ass:

Beware of babies. They will destroy you.

Babies are dangerous. They appear to be cute, affectionate, little balls of fat and love, then when you've opened yourself up to them, they strike, like little toothless vipers. If you review the basic truths about babies, you will see that they are in fact out to take over the world:

Parasites

Baby, preparing to rip me to shreds

The definition of a parasite, according to www.dictionary.com, is an organism that lives on or in another organism, known as the host, from the body of which it obtains nutriment. That sound familiar, mommies of the world? I know that many women love to play host, throwing dinner parties and Bat Mitzvahs, but this is a host of a different color. Not only do they embed themselves into a woman's stomach, leaching nutrients, but they also practice mind control. Take this, from fledgling blogger Julia Jones:

“During early pregnancy, I noticed something different about myself.  I felt dumber.  Yes.  Dumber.  Like, all of a sudden, my brain decided to take a hike and I couldn't remember jack squat anymore.  I would be carrying on a typical conversation with my husband, stop talking mid sentence, stare at him blankly, then say, "I'm sorry, what was I talking about?"

Spacecadetjones.blogspot.com

This is an obvious case of mental manipulation on the part of this fetal fury that has since extricated itself from my friend Julia, only to wreak havoc on the known world. But this is not where the terror ends. Once they are out, it only gets worse.

Snuggle Vomiting

For those of you not familiar with the snuggle vomit, it is when a little “person” gets all cute, nuzzles against your neck like a cuddly baby raccoon, then proceeds to blow breast-fed chunks down your collar.

How can such a small entity create such a large amount of projectile waste? It ruins your shirt, dribbles down your neck, encrusts your hair, and cakes into in your ear. Then, when you think the little Linda Blair prodigy cannot spit up any further, they dig deep within themselves to call forth even greater reverse digestion fury.

This tactic is an obvious plot to destroy nice clothing, break our steely resolve, and make us go deaf in one ear from the venomous puke that spews forth from all infant infidels.

Baby Bums

Trendsetter

I was in a restaurant yesterday, and I saw a baby dressed in a pair of sweatpants, a shirt that he'd obviously thrown up on, an oversized jean jacket, and a stocking cap. He looked as if he'd been sleeping on the streets of Boston, living off of cheap whiskey and guilt. If I'd come into that restaurant dressed in such a fashion, unable to walk, drooling all over myself and babbling like a deranged person, they'd have thrown me out like Sunday's garbage. But this little man gets the royal treatment. They are allowed to gallivant around, naked as jaybirds, flaunting their superior status and lowering our expectations of what is appropriate and decent. These babies' flagrant disregard for human dignity and decency is leading to a moral failure among all humans. People say,

“If a baby's doing it, why can't I? I think these sweatpants go well with my jean jacket.”

They don't. This is another example of how baby mind control is sabotaging this great nation. Soon we'll all be wandering around in pajamas and puke stained t-shirts. Those of us who haven't already.

Steal Our Good American Jobs

Did you know that 100% of hard working, red blooded, American jobs are being taken by babies? It's true. The person working next to you, was a baby, not long ago. They are very methodical, very sly, but they are all vying for our honest wages. Soon, all of us will be living in abject poverty while babies are raking in our millions.

Maybe you don't believe it. Perhaps you think,

“It'll never happen to me. I have a specific skill set that a baby could never learn. They don't even have efficient use of their opposable thumbs!”

Babies are fiercely intelligent. They learn at rates much higher than that of a regular human being. Within the first few years, they learn to walk, talk, and destroy entire houses with vomit, poop, and toys. After that, they are coming for your job.

Reproduction Mind Control

mind control laser locked on - set to stun

The most feared thing about babies is there ability to gain mind control of any woman between 18 and 40 and turn them into babbling baby wanting slaves. They dote. They coo. They speak in bizarre languages that only babies and other women can understand. Worst of all, they get these women to buy pregnancy magazines.

This would be horrific enough by itself, if not for the fact that, once they've been brainwashed by these adorable little munchkins of doom, they begin pressuring their male counterparts. They hint, they wish, they blatantly ask when they get to start “a family of their own”. If they are above 35, they reference a mysterious biological clock and its incessant time keeping accuracy.

Keep women away from babies. As the host, a women is useless to the mind powers of our fetal foes. Take my wife for instance - she loves babies so much that she actually agreed to watch and assist a baby's birth. The whole thing. And she doesn't even like the sight of blood.

If a woman you know has any of the above symptoms, it's too late for you. Suck it up and make the best of your inevitable baby making.

You may think it is too late to save the world from this barrage of bouncing babies. But with the proper protection, you can avoid this horrible fate and remain the tough, cool, man you claim to be.

Just don't be surprised if, one day, you wake up and realize that your leather jacket is in mothballs, your motorcycle is in pieces, and your wife is in labor with your third child. It's then that you'll realize that they've gotten to you too.

Consider yourself warned.

I'm watching you...

If you haven't figured out by now, this posting is completely satirical. Please do not assume that any of the above statement are in earnest, or any way heartfelt.

Thanks to Monica Overberg and Gabe Goodrick for allowing the use their son Kurtis, in the above images.

(The babies made me write this disclaimer. Save yourself...)

Hot Pants and Common Sense

When I walk my dog in the mornings, I rarely see anyone on the street. I pass the brick cottages and neatly trimmed lawns, my inquisitive Basset Hound in one hand, a plastic bag in the other. We groggily meander the sidewalks, sniffing out traces of squirrels and Taco Bell wrappers. Listening to podcasts syndicated by NPR and PRI, Ellie and I generally make our way back to the apartment without event or catastrophe. Sometimes we encounter a stray dog, or a child on their way to school, but for the most part, it's a solitary journey.

This morning we saw something worth noting. It wasn't so much an interaction as it was an observation.

The White Mile

As we exited the apartment this morning, we were blasted with the frigid wind of a twelve degree morning. Ellie dove into the snow, painting it yellow as she relieved herself in the three inch powder. We then began our trot down the alley. Our brisk pace was not due to any love of exercise, but rather a vain effort to keep from turning into living ice sculptures.

As we rounded the block, we jogged passed a house that bore signs of life. On the concrete front porch of this two story brick bungalow, a frumpy woman, mid 30's, stood stoically smoking a cigarette. The woman in and of herself was not notable, except for her chosen wardrobe.

Hot Pants in the Cold Dawn

Her head was covered with a nondescript stocking cap ('toque' for the Canadians out there – or a 'tousle cap' if you are my grandfather). She had an over-sized ski jacket on that draped over her shoulders and overshadowed her mittened hands as she tried to light the tobacco stick. 

The woman's bottom half was clad in naught but a pair of hot pants. No shoes, socks, or slippers. No jeans, snow-pants, or even pajama bottoms. It seems that her need to ingest that cigarette had overwhelmed her desire to avoid frostbite. I realize addictions are fierce masters, but I always assumed that pants would take priority over cigarettes. 

I may be making some unfair assumptions. Perhaps, in her rush to put on her down jacket, gloves, and a hat, she left her pants sitting on the floor of her bedroom. Right next to her common sense.

I tried not to stare as she stood in the doorway of her home, seemingly not phased by the biting cold. Hopefully the incredulous look on my face was masked by my own teeth chattering.

The Smoker's Motto

I've always wondered about a smokers audacious ability to brave any weather for their cigarette. It's commendable, that dedication. Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these smokers from the swift completion of their addicted vices.

But most have the common sense to put on pants before inhaling. Maybe there should be a new warning on cigarette cartons:

Warning: Excessive use of cigarettes can lead to a loss of common sense. And pants. It will eventually lead to frostbite, if the first two conditions occur.

This is what I take away from this naked legged woman from the suburban tundra:

Smoke. Smoke whatever you want. Smoke wherever you want. Smoke with whomever you want. Just wear pants while doing it. For everyone's sake.

Pee my Pants at Central Lee

“If peeing in your pants is cool, consider me Miles Davis.”

Everyone's peed their pants before right? I'm not talking about diaper clad pant wetting – that's understood. I'm referring to 'old enough to know better', urination in the Levi's, public embarrassment grade leakage. I've had my fair share of societal faux pas, some of which have included public urination, and one in particular has left an indelible mark on my psyche.

In first grade, I was in Mrs. Ekle's class. I remember a few distinct features of that year of my elementary career – Reading A year with Frog and Toad, Andy Peck and I playing with Transformers action figures at recess (that's the original Transformers – none of this Shia Labeouf business), Matt Hobbs contorting himself into yoga positions during our comprehension worksheets, and the beloved afternoon milk breaks.

The milk break was more than just a reprise from academia or a benefit of USDA subsidies to the dairy industry. It was an exercise in civility and control. We lined up, alphabetically, cruelly leaving me to the portion of the line that I'd command for the majority of my career in the Central Lee School system. It seems they were ardent supporters of alphabetic organization, at least in the 90's. This left me taking up the rear my whole stint in Central Lee academia.

On the day which stands out among every other in my first grade experiences, we lined up at the door and, upon reaching relative silence, began our single file trek to the lunch room, where we'd brandish our blue card stock lunch tickets for punching, proceed past the brushed steel coolers until we found the rectangle box of chocolate or white dairy that suited our fancy. Then we'd circle back into the hallway and sit against the wall while we consumes our beverages.

The wall was a free for all. No rules of seating based on last names. No mandates banning free speech, or any speech. It was one of our brief respites from the uber-order that is elementary school life. So we clamored to the mustard yellow wall that stood opposite the cafeteria and attempted to find an open space next to our friends. Fifteen minutes later, as we prepared to deposit our empty cartons in the appropriate waste receptacle, Mrs. Ekle marched before us, obviously furious. In tow was a girl whose full name I honestly cannot recall, but her first name was Mary. She was in tears.

In an egregiously furious tone, Mrs. Ekle brought down the wrath of a mother rhino onto the students before her. As we soon learned, Mary had been ostracized, turned away from the wall by every student she approached. All she wanted was to sit and drink her milk, maybe some small talk. But this had not been afforded her.

I can recall Mary's appearance – ashamedly all to well. Bear in mind the fact that I was not in any way fashionable, popular, or even couth in my elementary days. I do not recount the following memory from the ivory tower of any chic appearance of my own.

Mary was not always the most kempt. She generally had mysterious stains on her obviously second, third, or fourth hand clothing. The odors that exuded her being were not always identifiable, and rarely were they pleasant. Mix this with awkward social conduct and it's clear to see that her classmates, myself included, were not always the most welcoming. I am not at all condoning the behaviors of my first grade self. Kids are mean, and we were probably mean to that girl. I will say that, on this particular day, I was not party to the injustice that befell Mary. I don't know that I would have treated her any differently, but I did not malign her on that occasion.

Upon receiving the brimstone of Mrs. Ekle's disappointment, we all sheepishly stood, resumed our alphabetic chain gang, and shuffled back to the classroom in silence. Our judge, jury, and executioner stood before us and delivered our sentence.

“For the rest of the day, we are all going to work in silence. No one is to utter a word. Take this time to think about the way you treated Mary. Would you like to be left out that way?”

We had about an hour to ruminate on our misdeeds. We pulled out workbooks, drawing paper, and activity pads and commenced the restitution process. About a third of the way through our noiseless trial, the chocolate milk began to make its way through my system and into my underdeveloped bladder.

I raised my hand. Mrs. Ekle, from across the room, shook her head, a somber, silent

“no”.

I sat their for a few more moments, trying to focus on the workbook. Which image was not like the others? I couldn't tell. All I could focus on was the ever growing urge to let loose the torrent of urine that was building. I stood and began to approach the teachers desk. I was stopped in my tracks by the steely glare of a tempestuous tutor. She pointed at my desk, and I returned, growing ever more desperate. I began to dance in my chair. I crossed my legs. That just made it worse. I looked around to see if anyone else could see my panic. I squirmed, vainly attempting to coax the fluid back up into my digestive system. Finally, I could hold it back no longer. The dark stain began to eek through my Ninja Turtles Underoos and make itself evident on my pants. I shrunk into my seat. The other students at the table began to smell that something was amiss. It didn't take long for the entire class to draw the conclusion that I had peed my pants.

As titters and murmurs began to break out across the silent classroom, Mrs. Ekle stood up to reprimand the cacophonous children. As she strolled about the room, she too caught the acrimonious scent of urine on her palate. She found me doggedly close to the underside of my work table, and sent me to the nurses office to get cleaned up.

Leaping from my chair, I walked with such a hurried pace that it bordered running. With the chance of being stopped for excessive sprinting, I slowed down to a loping walk. I reached the nurses office, explained my accident, and was told to STAND where I was while the nurse found some replacement garments. She disappeared into the bathroom and returned with two items. Handing them to me, she callously said,

'These are the smallest ones I got. They'll have to do. Use the towels in the bathroom to pat yourself dry.”

As I locked the bathroom door, my eyes fell on the brown sandpaper that hung from a dispenser beside the sink. It wasn't inviting in the slightest, but compared to the clammy feeling I was currently experiencing, it was a step up. I disrobed from the navel down, cleaned up as best I could, and slid the oversized, dingy pair of white underoos onto my tiny frame. I then hoisted up a pair of stonewashed jeans that had to be made for a 5^th grade girl. Clutching the baggy waistband to my nipples, I poked my head out of the bathroom,

“What do you want me to do with my...old clothes?”

I was handed a paper grocery sack and with an ill fitting belt strapping the gigantic pants to my torso, I soon was on my way back to my first grade classroom, pee pants in tow. I rebuffed the piteous looks and sneers as best as possible, sighed a monumental sigh of relief upon hearing the final bell, and raced to the bus.

The walk home from the bus stop was one of both dejection and relief. The paper sack hung at my side like a bag of cement, the weight of my shameful urine pulling my arm down and causing my chin to rest on my chest. I dared not make eye contact with the cars that drove by – everyone surely knew what that bag signified. I reached our back door, collapsed into the house and tore away any reminders of that awful incident.

In retrospect, this catastrophic event of my elementary school tenure seems comedic. But somewhere in my soul, the events of that day still shame me. I doubt that anyone else remembers the day I peed my pants in Mrs. Ekle's first grade class, but if they do, I hope they don't hold it against me.

The trials we face as children shape who we are today. How we react to those trials shape how we view the rest of the world.

All names used in this essay are used for comedic purposes only. I mean no defamation and harbor no ill feelings to anyone for the events that occurred. I hope you enjoy my self deprecation as much as I enjoy sharing it!