8.31.2007
8.07.2007
Can't handle the truth.
One benefit to my mainly-standard office job I did not have in the old peemeister-only job is that I don't have to field nearly as many phone calls. Once in a while, though, I still get a particularly irritating one. I thought I'd share one from last Friday.
Our clients receive renewal packets from us, once a year. This packet comes with some fancy posters and stickers, a CD with all our updated rules and regulations, and a purty certificate to hang on the wall. This packet is sent out as soon as we receive their annual payment. We have too many clients, however, to handle on an individual basis, so we've settled into a month-behind routine that works pretty well for everyone. Basically I get a list on the first of the month of every company that paid their fees during the previous month.
I suppose most of our clients don't mind waiting a few weeks for their packets, since most of them pay us a month or two late anyway.
So the ladycalls me up on Friday afternoon wanting to know where her renewal is. I look her up in the computer and see she paid us just last week.
"Yes ma'am, I see you paid. I'll get it out as soon as I can."
"When can we expect it?'
"Just as soon as I finish it, I promise."
"And when will that be? What date?"
"I don't know for sure. I send out a batch of renewal packets every day, though."
"Which batch will ours be in?"
"Again, I don't know for sure. I can't give you an exact date."
"Why not?"
This is the part of the conversation that makes me uncomfortable. This woman wants to hear "Yes ma'am I'll get it out right away ma'am, it'll be on your desk Monday, you are more important than all three hundred of our other clients expecting renewal packets," and anything but that answer is just going to antagonize her. Like the moron that I am, though, I decide to stick with the truth.
"Because yours is one of many packets I have yet to put together. I'm working through them as fast as I can."
"So when are you going to get around to it?"
"Ma'am, your packet will go out in the mail soon. That's all I can tell you."
"Not acceptable."
"I apologize."
"What date are you going to do it? Are you going to make us wait for a month?"
"That's incredibly unlikely. I'll probably be able to get it finished within the next couple of business days, but it's impossible to know which specific day it will be."
"Not acceptable."
"Again, I apologize."
"If I told any of our customers 'it will be there when it gets there' we would lose all our customers."
Then she hangs up.
Thinking about it, there are probably two schools of thought on how this conversation went down. The first would be something like, um, hey peemeister guy, that lady has a point. And I agree to an extent. She is certainly entitled to the materials she has paid for, and she's well within her rights to call and ask when they can be expected. However, just like the pizza guy really can't give you a better estimate than "probably about forty-five minutes" I can't give anyone a better estimate than "probably within the next few days." (Actually, I'm betting it was more a case of "well it's 4pm on Friday afternoon and I've had a crappy week but I can't yell at my boss let's see who can I call and give a hard time to oh yeah the drug test guys" than anything else, but I have no direct evidence for that.)
The other reaction is probably along the lines of, hey peemeister guy, that lady was totally a bitch, why didn't you lay into her with sarcasm and snarkiness much to the delight of your readers? The answer to which would be: because that would have been rude and unprofessional. Had I given her actual cause to call my boss and complain, I would have been yelled at. And man, I really hate being yelled at.
For the record, I got the packet done yesterday and sent out in the mail, so she probably received it today. I wonder what would have happened if I had quoted her an exact date for next week. Would she call back to complain? "Yes I got my renewal packet, but you told me it wouldn't be here until next week! Why did you lie to me!?"
Our clients receive renewal packets from us, once a year. This packet comes with some fancy posters and stickers, a CD with all our updated rules and regulations, and a purty certificate to hang on the wall. This packet is sent out as soon as we receive their annual payment. We have too many clients, however, to handle on an individual basis, so we've settled into a month-behind routine that works pretty well for everyone. Basically I get a list on the first of the month of every company that paid their fees during the previous month.
I suppose most of our clients don't mind waiting a few weeks for their packets, since most of them pay us a month or two late anyway.
So the ladycalls me up on Friday afternoon wanting to know where her renewal is. I look her up in the computer and see she paid us just last week.
"Yes ma'am, I see you paid. I'll get it out as soon as I can."
"When can we expect it?'
"Just as soon as I finish it, I promise."
"And when will that be? What date?"
"I don't know for sure. I send out a batch of renewal packets every day, though."
"Which batch will ours be in?"
"Again, I don't know for sure. I can't give you an exact date."
"Why not?"
This is the part of the conversation that makes me uncomfortable. This woman wants to hear "Yes ma'am I'll get it out right away ma'am, it'll be on your desk Monday, you are more important than all three hundred of our other clients expecting renewal packets," and anything but that answer is just going to antagonize her. Like the moron that I am, though, I decide to stick with the truth.
"Because yours is one of many packets I have yet to put together. I'm working through them as fast as I can."
"So when are you going to get around to it?"
"Ma'am, your packet will go out in the mail soon. That's all I can tell you."
"Not acceptable."
"I apologize."
"What date are you going to do it? Are you going to make us wait for a month?"
"That's incredibly unlikely. I'll probably be able to get it finished within the next couple of business days, but it's impossible to know which specific day it will be."
"Not acceptable."
"Again, I apologize."
"If I told any of our customers 'it will be there when it gets there' we would lose all our customers."
Then she hangs up.
Thinking about it, there are probably two schools of thought on how this conversation went down. The first would be something like, um, hey peemeister guy, that lady has a point. And I agree to an extent. She is certainly entitled to the materials she has paid for, and she's well within her rights to call and ask when they can be expected. However, just like the pizza guy really can't give you a better estimate than "probably about forty-five minutes" I can't give anyone a better estimate than "probably within the next few days." (Actually, I'm betting it was more a case of "well it's 4pm on Friday afternoon and I've had a crappy week but I can't yell at my boss let's see who can I call and give a hard time to oh yeah the drug test guys" than anything else, but I have no direct evidence for that.)
The other reaction is probably along the lines of, hey peemeister guy, that lady was totally a bitch, why didn't you lay into her with sarcasm and snarkiness much to the delight of your readers? The answer to which would be: because that would have been rude and unprofessional. Had I given her actual cause to call my boss and complain, I would have been yelled at. And man, I really hate being yelled at.
For the record, I got the packet done yesterday and sent out in the mail, so she probably received it today. I wonder what would have happened if I had quoted her an exact date for next week. Would she call back to complain? "Yes I got my renewal packet, but you told me it wouldn't be here until next week! Why did you lie to me!?"
7.20.2007
Cue trombone sounds.
I've been handling supply orders in the office for the past month or so. The girl who did the job previously did alright with them, but she didn't have a system or anything resembling organizational skills. She would wait until someone ran out of something (letter openers, paper towels, whatever) then place an order for that particular item alone, plus however much copy paper would put the order over $100 so we qualified for free shipping. The end result was we usually had enough of everything to go around, but we'd run out of random things constantly. Except copy paper. We always had stacks and stacks of copy paper.
In any case, I whipped up a decent inventory system, moved all the office supplies out of the giant junk drawer and into a cabinet outside my office. I'm proud to report that we haven't run out of anything since I took over, largely because I actually take the time to do the inventory each week and place an order for things we're about to run out of. Everyone else has adjusted pretty well to this new system, and if I've done my part to make things around here run that much more efficiently, more the better.
Of course, I still have to have conversations like this one every few days:
"Do we have any more of those things?"
What things?
"Those things."
WHAT things?
"The things that go in the machine, up front."
What machine?
"The one that, where you slide, you know, MasterCards."
"The credit card machine."
"Yeah yeah."
You need receipt tape for the credit card machine.
"Yeah. Do you have them?"
They're in the supply cabinet, with all the other supplies.
"I can't find them."
They're on the top shelf. There's a huge pack of ten.
"They're not here. I'll go look up front."
No. They're in the cabinet, on the top shelf. There's a huge pack of them. Just reach up there.
"Which one?"
Top shelf.
"Yeah but where?"
TOP SHELF.
"We don't have them?"
Here. They're right here. Exactly where I said.
"Oh! Well that's too tall."
I'll move them to the middle shelf.
"Oh, we have highlighters! We needed some, I didn't know we had any."
I know, I know... my co-workers are dummies har har har. I wish it were that simple. This woman is not stupid. She knows where I keep the supplies. She knows she needs neither my permission nor my assistance to take whatever she wants. She simply prefers to be catered to, and if she can get away from her responsibilities up front by dragging the transaction out for three minutes, by golly, that's just what she'll do.
So, I figure I spend three minutes blogging about it, and the world keeps on spinnin'. Thank the Good Dude it's Friday.
This lady is shorter than I am, but not so short she can't reach the shelf her supplies are stored on. Even if she was, there's a footstool floating around back there with the specific purpose of enabling people to reach high-up shelves. Some people are just driven by an innate need to be difficult.
In any case, I whipped up a decent inventory system, moved all the office supplies out of the giant junk drawer and into a cabinet outside my office. I'm proud to report that we haven't run out of anything since I took over, largely because I actually take the time to do the inventory each week and place an order for things we're about to run out of. Everyone else has adjusted pretty well to this new system, and if I've done my part to make things around here run that much more efficiently, more the better.
Of course, I still have to have conversations like this one every few days:
"Do we have any more of those things?"
What things?
"Those things."
WHAT things?
"The things that go in the machine, up front."
What machine?
"The one that, where you slide, you know, MasterCards."
"The credit card machine."
"Yeah yeah."
You need receipt tape for the credit card machine.
"Yeah. Do you have them?"
They're in the supply cabinet, with all the other supplies.
"I can't find them."
They're on the top shelf. There's a huge pack of ten.
"They're not here. I'll go look up front."
No. They're in the cabinet, on the top shelf. There's a huge pack of them. Just reach up there.
"Which one?"
Top shelf.
"Yeah but where?"
TOP SHELF.
"We don't have them?"
Here. They're right here. Exactly where I said.
"Oh! Well that's too tall."
I'll move them to the middle shelf.
"Oh, we have highlighters! We needed some, I didn't know we had any."
I know, I know... my co-workers are dummies har har har. I wish it were that simple. This woman is not stupid. She knows where I keep the supplies. She knows she needs neither my permission nor my assistance to take whatever she wants. She simply prefers to be catered to, and if she can get away from her responsibilities up front by dragging the transaction out for three minutes, by golly, that's just what she'll do.
So, I figure I spend three minutes blogging about it, and the world keeps on spinnin'. Thank the Good Dude it's Friday.
This lady is shorter than I am, but not so short she can't reach the shelf her supplies are stored on. Even if she was, there's a footstool floating around back there with the specific purpose of enabling people to reach high-up shelves. Some people are just driven by an innate need to be difficult.
7.16.2007
It's a bit nipply in here.
I think every office across America has that one room which is always twice as cold as any other room in the building. In our building, that room is my office. So here I sit, middle of July, wearing a jacket and rubbing my hands together so as not to lose feeling in the tips of my fingers.
I am reminded of a particularly cold day a few years ago, back in my old office. It was a windy November morning (or maybe December), and having just biked through a light drizzle I arrived at work absolutely freezing. Fortunately, back in those days I kept a spare change of clothes in the office for just this occasion. I changed into a clean, dry pair of jeans and threw on some new socks, but couldn't find a shirt. I did, however, have my nice warm heavy sweater draped across the desk, so I stripped out of my wet one and just threw on the sweater. I then killed the A/C to get things a little toasty and watched the grey morning pass by outside.
Several hours later a young lady walks in wearing a tight white shirt and a cute little pink vest. She's clutching her arms to her chest and shivering and, of course, is here to take a drug test.
The collection passes uneventfully, but just as I'm getting everything packed and sealed she points out, "You know, I can tell you aren't wearing a shirt under your sweater."
"That's okay," I reply, "I can tell you aren't wearing a bra under your shirt."
She turns beet red and leaves as swiftly as possible.
I guess nobody ever taught her it was rude to point.
I am reminded of a particularly cold day a few years ago, back in my old office. It was a windy November morning (or maybe December), and having just biked through a light drizzle I arrived at work absolutely freezing. Fortunately, back in those days I kept a spare change of clothes in the office for just this occasion. I changed into a clean, dry pair of jeans and threw on some new socks, but couldn't find a shirt. I did, however, have my nice warm heavy sweater draped across the desk, so I stripped out of my wet one and just threw on the sweater. I then killed the A/C to get things a little toasty and watched the grey morning pass by outside.
Several hours later a young lady walks in wearing a tight white shirt and a cute little pink vest. She's clutching her arms to her chest and shivering and, of course, is here to take a drug test.
The collection passes uneventfully, but just as I'm getting everything packed and sealed she points out, "You know, I can tell you aren't wearing a shirt under your sweater."
"That's okay," I reply, "I can tell you aren't wearing a bra under your shirt."
She turns beet red and leaves as swiftly as possible.
I guess nobody ever taught her it was rude to point.
6.29.2007
Son of a...
Not one full day after blogging about how nobody would want our "Osama says: buy more heroin!" poster for use in their office, I got an order for one.
Eagle-eyes readers might recall a time a few months ago where I wrote about a monumental screw-up on my part just a day after writing about a monumental screw-up that ended up costing some poor collector thousands of dollars.
The only logical thing to do, of course, is complain about how my boss will never give me a $5-an-hour raise or let me hook my Xbox up to the TV in our spare office.
Lots of updates this week. Wow.
Eagle-eyes readers might recall a time a few months ago where I wrote about a monumental screw-up on my part just a day after writing about a monumental screw-up that ended up costing some poor collector thousands of dollars.
The only logical thing to do, of course, is complain about how my boss will never give me a $5-an-hour raise or let me hook my Xbox up to the TV in our spare office.
Lots of updates this week. Wow.
6.28.2007
No, it's an egg in a frying pan.
Peemeistering has been a little on the quiet side lately, so I thought I'd share one of my favorite aspects of my new-ish job back in the shipping room: the propaganda posters.
Everyone remembers the good ol' "this is your brain... on drugs" commercials. Egg, frying pan, yadda yadda. Good stuff. Later on they released a remastered edition with a skanky white lady who, instead of frying the egg, smashes it with the frying pan and proceeds to completely demolish her entire kitchen, thereby proving that you don't need to be on drugs to be a certifiable nutball. Well, one of the materials I'm responsible for shipping out to clients are tacky "drug-free workplace" posters that make the fried egg commercials look like masterpieces.
Some are inoffensive enough, like the ones that just have our company logo and phone number. Actually, flipping through our brochure, that's the only one. The rest are... well... let's just say they aren't oozing class.
Take, for example, our Taco Bell dog rip-off. It features a picture of the owner's dog saying "Yo no quiero drogas!" Never mind the fact that the Taco Bell dog hasn't even existed in like five years, and the fact that every person on the planet was completely annoyed with it even when it was relevant... is anyone really going to re-think their entire outlook on drug abuse because a Photoshopped dog head told them to -- in Spanish?
Speaking of Photoshopped heads, I really like the one where they just went in and collapsed the top of Mona Lisa's head to prove marijuana shrinks your brain. They forgot to paste a doobie hanging off her cryptic smiling lips, though.
Our most popular poster features a cartoon frog and the message "get a grip on life." I don't have any idea why people love the frog so much. Either he's related to the Geico saleslizard, or it has something to do with the fact that it looks a few shades less tacky than our other offerings.
If I had to pick a favorite, I'm afraid it'd come down to a tie. On one hand we have the "circle of friends" poster, detailing all the wonderful friends your life of drugs will introduce you to by showing a picture of four or five fat, sweaty white guys standing in a jail cell with their eyes blacked out. On the other we have the one with the pot leaf surrounded by every euphemism for marijuana my boss could think of, including a few I'm sure he made up. Being a 20-something suburbanite, I've met a few people who partake of this particular substance, and none of them have ever used the terms "bone", "sinsemilla" or "hog leg" before... although, I'm sure at least one does now that I've shown him the poster.
Mostly these posters are just harmless fun. They get a chuckle from employers who put them up in break rooms and office cubicles, and make them feel good because they're doing something to curb drug use in the workplace. Some of the information is tenuous at best, but there's only one poster I really think we should discontinue: the one with a giant picture of Osama bin Laden, along with the phrase "Osama says: buy more heroin!" I don't think I've ever had an order for this poster. Aside from the offensive implication that all drug users are terrorists, people probably just don't want a picture of the man himself hanging in the office. Except, maybe, as a dart board.
So that's what the peemeister does when not peemeistering: he prints out hilarious anti-drug propaganda on thick card stock and ships it to trucking companies and landscaping services all over this great country. God bless America, etc... just remember to stay away from the hog leg.
Another one of the slang terms used on the pot leaf poster is "sh*t", which I believe is pronounced "shasteriskt".
Everyone remembers the good ol' "this is your brain... on drugs" commercials. Egg, frying pan, yadda yadda. Good stuff. Later on they released a remastered edition with a skanky white lady who, instead of frying the egg, smashes it with the frying pan and proceeds to completely demolish her entire kitchen, thereby proving that you don't need to be on drugs to be a certifiable nutball. Well, one of the materials I'm responsible for shipping out to clients are tacky "drug-free workplace" posters that make the fried egg commercials look like masterpieces.
Some are inoffensive enough, like the ones that just have our company logo and phone number. Actually, flipping through our brochure, that's the only one. The rest are... well... let's just say they aren't oozing class.
Take, for example, our Taco Bell dog rip-off. It features a picture of the owner's dog saying "Yo no quiero drogas!" Never mind the fact that the Taco Bell dog hasn't even existed in like five years, and the fact that every person on the planet was completely annoyed with it even when it was relevant... is anyone really going to re-think their entire outlook on drug abuse because a Photoshopped dog head told them to -- in Spanish?
Speaking of Photoshopped heads, I really like the one where they just went in and collapsed the top of Mona Lisa's head to prove marijuana shrinks your brain. They forgot to paste a doobie hanging off her cryptic smiling lips, though.
Our most popular poster features a cartoon frog and the message "get a grip on life." I don't have any idea why people love the frog so much. Either he's related to the Geico saleslizard, or it has something to do with the fact that it looks a few shades less tacky than our other offerings.
If I had to pick a favorite, I'm afraid it'd come down to a tie. On one hand we have the "circle of friends" poster, detailing all the wonderful friends your life of drugs will introduce you to by showing a picture of four or five fat, sweaty white guys standing in a jail cell with their eyes blacked out. On the other we have the one with the pot leaf surrounded by every euphemism for marijuana my boss could think of, including a few I'm sure he made up. Being a 20-something suburbanite, I've met a few people who partake of this particular substance, and none of them have ever used the terms "bone", "sinsemilla" or "hog leg" before... although, I'm sure at least one does now that I've shown him the poster.
Mostly these posters are just harmless fun. They get a chuckle from employers who put them up in break rooms and office cubicles, and make them feel good because they're doing something to curb drug use in the workplace. Some of the information is tenuous at best, but there's only one poster I really think we should discontinue: the one with a giant picture of Osama bin Laden, along with the phrase "Osama says: buy more heroin!" I don't think I've ever had an order for this poster. Aside from the offensive implication that all drug users are terrorists, people probably just don't want a picture of the man himself hanging in the office. Except, maybe, as a dart board.
So that's what the peemeister does when not peemeistering: he prints out hilarious anti-drug propaganda on thick card stock and ships it to trucking companies and landscaping services all over this great country. God bless America, etc... just remember to stay away from the hog leg.
Another one of the slang terms used on the pot leaf poster is "sh*t", which I believe is pronounced "shasteriskt".
6.27.2007
The revenge of Mr. Tattoo.
Mr. Tattoo came back today for round two. He was in from a different car dealership; you'll recall the first one didn't hire him because they requested a hair test, and he's bald. (If you recall no such thing, you may click here to read about my first adventure with Mr. Tattoo.)
I couldn't see his tattoo today, on account of he was dressed up all nice. Collared shirt (tucked-in, even!), tie, nice slacks, the works. During our first meeting he wore ripped jeans and a wifebeater. My guess was he came in right off his job interview today, probably because he couldn't wait to yell at me.
And oh boy did he yell. He yelled about how we must have been lying about the hair regulations, since [insert our biggest competitor here] took his chest hair just, like, two or three months ago. He yelled about how it's demeaning to do a urine test. He yelled about how our company policies were stupid. He yelled about how it's discriminatory that he can't work at Car Dealership X because he chooses to cut his hair a certain way.
I tried to explain the difference between "company policy" and "state regulation". I tried to explain (without sounding like I was badmouthing them, and I admit it didn't come off very well) that some labs choose to skirt around regulations if they can profit from it. But as you probably know, there's no reasoning with someone who just wants to piss and moan and just generally be belligerent.
We didn't touch on the subject that, apparently, Car Company Y is a better place to work than Car Company X anyway. Meeting as many car dealership guys as I do, you get the feel for these things.
This story is actually a couple weeks old. I should check my saved drafts more often, I guess.
I couldn't see his tattoo today, on account of he was dressed up all nice. Collared shirt (tucked-in, even!), tie, nice slacks, the works. During our first meeting he wore ripped jeans and a wifebeater. My guess was he came in right off his job interview today, probably because he couldn't wait to yell at me.
And oh boy did he yell. He yelled about how we must have been lying about the hair regulations, since [insert our biggest competitor here] took his chest hair just, like, two or three months ago. He yelled about how it's demeaning to do a urine test. He yelled about how our company policies were stupid. He yelled about how it's discriminatory that he can't work at Car Dealership X because he chooses to cut his hair a certain way.
I tried to explain the difference between "company policy" and "state regulation". I tried to explain (without sounding like I was badmouthing them, and I admit it didn't come off very well) that some labs choose to skirt around regulations if they can profit from it. But as you probably know, there's no reasoning with someone who just wants to piss and moan and just generally be belligerent.
We didn't touch on the subject that, apparently, Car Company Y is a better place to work than Car Company X anyway. Meeting as many car dealership guys as I do, you get the feel for these things.
This story is actually a couple weeks old. I should check my saved drafts more often, I guess.
6.26.2007
Why I love the ER blogs.
In the past month of no updates I have probably sat down to type something here about three dozen times, at least. Every single time, though, I had to erase what I had written because I realized all I was really doing was ranting like a lunatic. Which can admittedly be fun to read, but it's not the kind of stuff I like to write. I like relaying quirky stories about weird people taking drug tests, not six paragraphs of "rawr everyone is an idiot but me, rabble rabble rabble."
A lot of things have gone down in the tiny peemeister offices these past few weeks, and some of them have left me a bit shaken. But it's all office politics stuff, which isn't the focus of my blogging. It has cut me though, sometimes deeper than I would have figured was possible. Changes are happening, some good, some bad. Management has woken up and is starting to make some decisions... again, some good, some bad. Anyway, all the politicking has left me unable or unwilling to document the various zaniness I've come across while conducting my collections, and for that I apologize.
Things are starting to settle a little, I think.
One of the new decisions is the arbitrary blocking of half the internet from all our computers. I disagree with the decision for basically selfish reasons: I like the internet and I get cranky when it's taken away from me. I feel that in an office of a dozen or so people, if it's found that someone is abusing MySpace or whatever you can just block that address from that machine and be done with it. Er, there I go, ranting again. I'll stop now.
Anyway, the criteria for what is blocked and what isn't is pretty strange. Websites I used to hit once a day (comics, news sites, educational sites, and a forum or two) are gone now, even though I'm the only person in the office who would ever dream of visiting them. However, sites like LiveJournal and Blogger are unblocked, so I've been filling my days reading a lot more blogs than I used to.
I've never been much of a blog guy. I really love writing and sharing my experiences, but I don't take a lot of pleasure in reading the rants of others. There are several blogs I check daily, but they're either videogame related (and thus of no real value to anyone except gamers) or they're the awesome cream-of-the-crop blogs that everyone is already reading anyway. Maybe I'll put the links up someday.
For some reason though, I have discovered that I love the ER blogs. I love them. I can't get enough. I don't know how I found the first one, but after I finished the archives I pulled a random link from its blogroll and plowed through another one. The ER blogs captivate me.
I'm not really interested in the medical industry, even though I kinda sorta work in it (in the same way the janitor at CBS works in the "entertainment industry"). And a lot of the ER blogs are the "everyone is an idiot but me" rants I tend to roll my eyes at. So why do I love them so much? I think it's the combination of two things. First, they do have a point. Anyone who's sat an an ER for any length of time at peak hours sees the kind of absolute crap hospital employees deal with on a daily basis. It's enough to make anyone jaded. And second, jaded or not, the work they do is incredibly difficult and I would probably have a coronary just thinking about it.
In a few ways, reading all those ER blogs helped me realize that a lot of the petty nonsense I'm putting up with at work right now is just that: petty nonsense. I know perfectly well that my laziness and lack of compassion preclude me from ever doing the important and often thankless work they do. So I offer my heartfelt thanks to all of them, especially the ones who blog about their daily grind and share their experiences with the rest of us.
Here are three of the best ones I came across, which have made it onto my "check these daily" list:
http://ernursey.blogspot.com/
http://lastblogstanding.blogspot.com/
http://ambulancedriverfiles.blogspot.com/
Please note: this isn't any indication that the peemeistering is going to pick up anytime soon. Here's hoping, though!
A lot of things have gone down in the tiny peemeister offices these past few weeks, and some of them have left me a bit shaken. But it's all office politics stuff, which isn't the focus of my blogging. It has cut me though, sometimes deeper than I would have figured was possible. Changes are happening, some good, some bad. Management has woken up and is starting to make some decisions... again, some good, some bad. Anyway, all the politicking has left me unable or unwilling to document the various zaniness I've come across while conducting my collections, and for that I apologize.
Things are starting to settle a little, I think.
One of the new decisions is the arbitrary blocking of half the internet from all our computers. I disagree with the decision for basically selfish reasons: I like the internet and I get cranky when it's taken away from me. I feel that in an office of a dozen or so people, if it's found that someone is abusing MySpace or whatever you can just block that address from that machine and be done with it. Er, there I go, ranting again. I'll stop now.
Anyway, the criteria for what is blocked and what isn't is pretty strange. Websites I used to hit once a day (comics, news sites, educational sites, and a forum or two) are gone now, even though I'm the only person in the office who would ever dream of visiting them. However, sites like LiveJournal and Blogger are unblocked, so I've been filling my days reading a lot more blogs than I used to.
I've never been much of a blog guy. I really love writing and sharing my experiences, but I don't take a lot of pleasure in reading the rants of others. There are several blogs I check daily, but they're either videogame related (and thus of no real value to anyone except gamers) or they're the awesome cream-of-the-crop blogs that everyone is already reading anyway. Maybe I'll put the links up someday.
For some reason though, I have discovered that I love the ER blogs. I love them. I can't get enough. I don't know how I found the first one, but after I finished the archives I pulled a random link from its blogroll and plowed through another one. The ER blogs captivate me.
I'm not really interested in the medical industry, even though I kinda sorta work in it (in the same way the janitor at CBS works in the "entertainment industry"). And a lot of the ER blogs are the "everyone is an idiot but me" rants I tend to roll my eyes at. So why do I love them so much? I think it's the combination of two things. First, they do have a point. Anyone who's sat an an ER for any length of time at peak hours sees the kind of absolute crap hospital employees deal with on a daily basis. It's enough to make anyone jaded. And second, jaded or not, the work they do is incredibly difficult and I would probably have a coronary just thinking about it.
In a few ways, reading all those ER blogs helped me realize that a lot of the petty nonsense I'm putting up with at work right now is just that: petty nonsense. I know perfectly well that my laziness and lack of compassion preclude me from ever doing the important and often thankless work they do. So I offer my heartfelt thanks to all of them, especially the ones who blog about their daily grind and share their experiences with the rest of us.
Here are three of the best ones I came across, which have made it onto my "check these daily" list:
http://ernursey.blogspot.com/
http://lastblogstanding.blogspot.com/
http://ambulancedriverfiles.blogspot.com/
Please note: this isn't any indication that the peemeistering is going to pick up anytime soon. Here's hoping, though!
5.21.2007
Nice aim.
To answer your question: yes, people try to cheat. This doesn't bother me as much as you might think, other than the fact that it ends up wasting five or ten minutes of everyone's time. The sad truth about pre-employment drug testing (or any drug test which gives you time beforehand to prepare) is that they aren't so much testing for drugs as they are intelligence. Anyone with even passing knowledge of how the process works (for example, anyone who reads my blog) can, with the slightest bit of reasoning, work out how to cheat.
So, whenever I come across a cheater, I'm a little disappointed. The process can't catch the people who cheat successfully (how would we ever know?); we only see the people who didn't bother putting more than four minutes of thought into how they were going to sneak one by us. It's the equivalent of watching some numbskull uselessly pushing against a door that is labeled "pull".
Stupid Name not only didn't have a good plan for cheating -- if that were the extent of it, he wouldn't really be noteworthy. What made Stupid Name extra special was that he actually managed to botch his already-doomed-to-fail plan.
The collection started smoothly. Stupid Name seemed eager to get the thing over and done with, and I was eager to be rid of him and move on to the nine people waiting in line behind him. I'm finishing up his paperwork as he's in the bathroom when I hear the curious sound of liquid hitting the floor. Not the tssssss of a careless man peeing on the floor, but rather the kssssshhhhh of someone spilling the contents of a bottle.
Stupid Name opens the door and pokes his head out. "Hey dude, you got a mop or somethin'? I missed the bowl."
I tell Stupid Name that I'll take care of the mopping afterwards. He opens the door, steps out, and sets a half-full cup on the counter. His shirt has a huge wet spot on it starting at his collar and ending just above his gut. There's an enormous puddle of urine on the floor of the bathroom about two feet away from the toilet. Why, it almost looks as though someone were standing with his back to the commode, pouring liquid from one container into another, and spilling it all over himself.
Before I can point out to Stupid Name why this is unacceptable, he offers up this useful information: "Sorry, I kinda peed on myself."
Explaining to Stupid Name why I won't be taking his sample is actually none too difficult. He's pretty embarrassed by the fact that he screwed up. The odd sound is enough to merit a second collection. Stupid Name packs his things and leaves the office.
Oh, and his sample was colder than room temperature. Which means even if he weren't a moron and hadn't botched his flawless scheme, I still would have caught him. Dude was foiled from both ends. Once he's gone I set about mopping up his mess, then call the next person waiting. Going to be a long-ish day.
Just now I've been informed that Stupid Name is back, willing to try again. As soon as we get permission to do a witnessed collection from his employer, he'll get his chance. I haven't seen him yet but I hope he's at least changed his shirt.
So, whenever I come across a cheater, I'm a little disappointed. The process can't catch the people who cheat successfully (how would we ever know?); we only see the people who didn't bother putting more than four minutes of thought into how they were going to sneak one by us. It's the equivalent of watching some numbskull uselessly pushing against a door that is labeled "pull".
Stupid Name not only didn't have a good plan for cheating -- if that were the extent of it, he wouldn't really be noteworthy. What made Stupid Name extra special was that he actually managed to botch his already-doomed-to-fail plan.
The collection started smoothly. Stupid Name seemed eager to get the thing over and done with, and I was eager to be rid of him and move on to the nine people waiting in line behind him. I'm finishing up his paperwork as he's in the bathroom when I hear the curious sound of liquid hitting the floor. Not the tssssss of a careless man peeing on the floor, but rather the kssssshhhhh of someone spilling the contents of a bottle.
Stupid Name opens the door and pokes his head out. "Hey dude, you got a mop or somethin'? I missed the bowl."
I tell Stupid Name that I'll take care of the mopping afterwards. He opens the door, steps out, and sets a half-full cup on the counter. His shirt has a huge wet spot on it starting at his collar and ending just above his gut. There's an enormous puddle of urine on the floor of the bathroom about two feet away from the toilet. Why, it almost looks as though someone were standing with his back to the commode, pouring liquid from one container into another, and spilling it all over himself.
Before I can point out to Stupid Name why this is unacceptable, he offers up this useful information: "Sorry, I kinda peed on myself."
Explaining to Stupid Name why I won't be taking his sample is actually none too difficult. He's pretty embarrassed by the fact that he screwed up. The odd sound is enough to merit a second collection. Stupid Name packs his things and leaves the office.
Oh, and his sample was colder than room temperature. Which means even if he weren't a moron and hadn't botched his flawless scheme, I still would have caught him. Dude was foiled from both ends. Once he's gone I set about mopping up his mess, then call the next person waiting. Going to be a long-ish day.
Just now I've been informed that Stupid Name is back, willing to try again. As soon as we get permission to do a witnessed collection from his employer, he'll get his chance. I haven't seen him yet but I hope he's at least changed his shirt.
5.18.2007
Let's take it from the top.
One of the services my company haphazardly provides is hair testing. The deal with hair testing, essentially, is that the lab can trace your drug usage history back as far as you hair has been growing. I guess, in theory, they could take a 30-year-old woman who hasn't had her hair cut in 16 years and find out what kind of substances she used in high school. I'm fairly sure there's a cap on how far back various agencies are allowed to look into your drug history to consider you for employment. In any case, this is why Brittney Spears recently flipped out an shaved her head. No hair, no drug test history.
Hair collections are generally a snap. Snip snip, fold the hair into a foil strip, seal it up in an envelope, and now it's the lab's problem. It's so easy, in fact, that interviewers can do it literally right there at the interview -- no need to send the applicant out for a costly urine collection. Unless, of course, the applicant has no hair on his head... then they send him to us so we can take the hair from elsewhere.
In my day I've skimmed chests, snipped underarms and clipped napes. It has thankfully always been our company policy to not use pubic hair for testing, although there is a spot on the form for it, so it's definitely an option. So, easy as they are to conduct in theory, you can see why I've always dreaded doing hair collections: it means I have to go into some bald dude's pits. And, since it's tricky to get the requisite one-by-one-and-a-half inch patch of hair from even the shaggiest of chests, it likely meant that the lab wouldn't do the test at all and the guy would just be sent back for another try. I've had several cases where, after three failed hair tests, the company broke down and just settled for a urine test instead.
I mean, even bald guys have to pee.
I was overjoyed about two years ago when the hair testing regulations were changed to only allow hair from the head, and nowhere else. I never knew the reason for the change and didn't much care... my days of doing hair tests were over. Huzzah, etc. It meant, of course, that once every six months or so I would have an irate bald man in my office screaming at me, but I nonetheless considered it a bargain.
So imagine my disdain when I sit down at my computer today to see a message from my boss: "Can you do a hair test?"
Crap.
I put up a halfhearted fight and pointed out that, really, I'd rather be doing anything but hair testing... but in the end it wasn't going to work and I knew it. Nobody else in the office is trained to do them. I have no idea who was trained on them before I started here, put it's kind of a moot point now; some clown was on his way to get a hair test done for a car dealership.
(I'll point out here that of the thirty or forty hair tests I've done, they have all been for car dealerships, to the very last man. I don't even have a vague theory on why this is.)
In any case it doesn't take long. By the time we've scrounged up our hair test supplies, Mr. Tattoo is waiting in the lobby. I snap his form out of the box and look at his ID.
He's entirely bald.
Thank heavens.
Of course now I have to explain that he made the trip out here for nothing, but again, I consider it a bargain.
"Mr. Tattoo? You're here for a hair test, right? There's a small problem."
"No problem," he says, lifting up his shirt. He has hair on his chest, but not nearly enough to get the required amount for the lab.
"I can't take it from your chest. It has to be from the head."
"No it doesn't."
"Sorry, Mr. Tattoo. They changed the regulations on hair testing a few years ago. Nothing we can do." I hand him his ID. He snatches it and whips out his cell phone to call whomever it is that people always call on their cell phones when they've been denied service for something.
So I get out of having to do a hair test and Mr. Tattoo doesn't have to work at a car dealership. I think I'll call that a win/win.
We offered to do a urine test instead, but Mr. Tattoo had already failed one. Go figure.
Hair collections are generally a snap. Snip snip, fold the hair into a foil strip, seal it up in an envelope, and now it's the lab's problem. It's so easy, in fact, that interviewers can do it literally right there at the interview -- no need to send the applicant out for a costly urine collection. Unless, of course, the applicant has no hair on his head... then they send him to us so we can take the hair from elsewhere.
In my day I've skimmed chests, snipped underarms and clipped napes. It has thankfully always been our company policy to not use pubic hair for testing, although there is a spot on the form for it, so it's definitely an option. So, easy as they are to conduct in theory, you can see why I've always dreaded doing hair collections: it means I have to go into some bald dude's pits. And, since it's tricky to get the requisite one-by-one-and-a-half inch patch of hair from even the shaggiest of chests, it likely meant that the lab wouldn't do the test at all and the guy would just be sent back for another try. I've had several cases where, after three failed hair tests, the company broke down and just settled for a urine test instead.
I mean, even bald guys have to pee.
I was overjoyed about two years ago when the hair testing regulations were changed to only allow hair from the head, and nowhere else. I never knew the reason for the change and didn't much care... my days of doing hair tests were over. Huzzah, etc. It meant, of course, that once every six months or so I would have an irate bald man in my office screaming at me, but I nonetheless considered it a bargain.
So imagine my disdain when I sit down at my computer today to see a message from my boss: "Can you do a hair test?"
Crap.
I put up a halfhearted fight and pointed out that, really, I'd rather be doing anything but hair testing... but in the end it wasn't going to work and I knew it. Nobody else in the office is trained to do them. I have no idea who was trained on them before I started here, put it's kind of a moot point now; some clown was on his way to get a hair test done for a car dealership.
(I'll point out here that of the thirty or forty hair tests I've done, they have all been for car dealerships, to the very last man. I don't even have a vague theory on why this is.)
In any case it doesn't take long. By the time we've scrounged up our hair test supplies, Mr. Tattoo is waiting in the lobby. I snap his form out of the box and look at his ID.
He's entirely bald.
Thank heavens.
Of course now I have to explain that he made the trip out here for nothing, but again, I consider it a bargain.
"Mr. Tattoo? You're here for a hair test, right? There's a small problem."
"No problem," he says, lifting up his shirt. He has hair on his chest, but not nearly enough to get the required amount for the lab.
"I can't take it from your chest. It has to be from the head."
"No it doesn't."
"Sorry, Mr. Tattoo. They changed the regulations on hair testing a few years ago. Nothing we can do." I hand him his ID. He snatches it and whips out his cell phone to call whomever it is that people always call on their cell phones when they've been denied service for something.
So I get out of having to do a hair test and Mr. Tattoo doesn't have to work at a car dealership. I think I'll call that a win/win.
We offered to do a urine test instead, but Mr. Tattoo had already failed one. Go figure.
5.17.2007
Weird look.
One of the up-front girls notified me over our inter-office messaging system that Mr. Quiet's collection would need to be witnessed. Apparently his first sample came back far too hot and, upon delivering this information to Mr. Quiet's would-be employer, they requested that someone watch him pee to make sure he didn't try to get away with anything the second time around.
I felt bad for Mr. Quiet because he didn't seem to me to be the type who would attempt to cheat on a drug test. He was very polite and soft-spoken, was not the least bit combative or nervous, and didn't ask any strange questions about loopholes. He didn't set off any red flags. I quickly decided that he probably just had the bad luck of running a high temperature. Not common, but it happens.
I stood behind Mr. Quiet in the bathroom as he went through the motions. Ten seconds in, however, he discontinued the process claiming he just couldn't go. This was definitely strange... even if you didn't feel the urge, you'd give it more than ten seconds, right?
I put Mr. Quiet's paperwork in the "not ready" box and instruct him to drink as much water as he needs. It's pretty early in the afternoon, so there's no hurry; he can sit there for hours if he wants, or leave and come back, or pretty much anything really. Ball's in his court.
Fifteen minutes before closing, I get called back up. Mr. Quiet's ready. In the middle of putting together a last-minute overnight order for one of our clients, I told the up-front girls to go ahead and take someone ahead of him, and that I'd be up in five minutes. When I made it up to there, the collection-in-progress was only halfway done, so I stood nearby and waited patiently for my turn.
From where I stood I could look into the reception area and out through the window into the waiting room. I watched as someone dumped $1.50 into our soda machine, skimmed over a couple waiting on an immigration physical, and to Mr. Quiet sitting in the corner. I gave him a polite nod.
Another minute goes by, and Mr. Quiet approached the receptionist. I couldn't hear what he said, and in fact didn't even know he had stepped up until I heard the up-front girl say, "Huh? Speak up sweetie, I can't hear you." Mr. Quiet glanced nervously at me, shrugged sheepishly, and said "I'm sorry man... it's nothing personal... just... I don't know what to make of that look." Then he turned back to the up-front girl and reinforced his point: "Didn't you see? He just gave me a really weird look. Like, really uncomfortable. Can someone else do the test?"
The up-front girl looked at me, stupefied. She didn't know the answer to the question (of course) but I did: "Sir, I'm the only male collector on duty today. It's me or no one."
"Can I come back tomorrow? I'm sorry but I'm just real uncomfortable."
"I'm pretty much the only male collector who works here, sir. You'll have to get in touch with your employer if you want to arrange to go somewhere else." That's actually only a half-truth: the president of the company is also certified to do collections, but let's be honest, nobody actually expects him to. If Mr. Quiet wants this drug test done, he's really only got the one option.
By now, the collection-in-progress is done and I retrieve Mr. Quiet's sheet. He follows me back, apologizing the whole way, repeating "I just really don't know what to make of that look... you know?"
A brief aside: Mr. Quiet's complaint about a "look" might not be completely unwarranted. I wasn't convinced he was a cheater at first, but his shabby performance during the first witnessed test didn't exactly win him any points with me. If the look on my face said "this guy is a scumbag cheater" when we locked eyes for one magical moment as I as scanning the lobby, well, you'll have to forgive me. More likely, Mr. Quiet was looking for any semi-legit opportunity to duck out of a drug test he knew he'd fail, no matter how flimsy the pretense.
So we went through the whole song and dance, the "empty your pockets please", the "you understand this test is to be witnessed", the whole nine yards. And again, he gives a shoddy ten second showing where he doesn't even pretend to try to urinate, then gives up. "I can't do it," he says. "I just can't do it."
Mr. Quiet elected to leave the office and return the next day, pending permission to do so from whatever hapless company thinks it wants to employ him.
The next day Mr. Quiet returned. His employer had given permission for a second witnessed test. However, this time when he saw that once again I was the only person available for the collection, he raised a small fuss about how he was assured it wouldn't be the guy who gave him the "weird look." We certainly assured him of no such thing. Perhaps his employer did, not knowing the circumstances, but in any case these assurances did not match reality. He left without even filling out the paperwork.
The next day (today) I learned that Mr. Quiet couldn't be witnessed because he had kidney stones. Now, I'm of the opinion that the man was just trying to duck a drug test by any means necessary. I admit that I could be wrong, and that the poor guy just doesn't want some other dude watching him pee. Maybe he gets stage fright really easily. But again, making excuses doesn't help his case any. After today's visit it seems Mr. Quiet finally gave up the fight and his prospective employer passed him over for one of the fifty guys standing behind him for the same job.
Sorry, Mr. Quiet. Don't leave it in the microwave so long next time, eh?
I enjoy watching people pump money into the soda machine because I'm the guy who stocks it and profits from it. *clack* *clack* *rumbarumba* *THUNK* -- Thanks for the twenty-six cents, mister!
I felt bad for Mr. Quiet because he didn't seem to me to be the type who would attempt to cheat on a drug test. He was very polite and soft-spoken, was not the least bit combative or nervous, and didn't ask any strange questions about loopholes. He didn't set off any red flags. I quickly decided that he probably just had the bad luck of running a high temperature. Not common, but it happens.
I stood behind Mr. Quiet in the bathroom as he went through the motions. Ten seconds in, however, he discontinued the process claiming he just couldn't go. This was definitely strange... even if you didn't feel the urge, you'd give it more than ten seconds, right?
I put Mr. Quiet's paperwork in the "not ready" box and instruct him to drink as much water as he needs. It's pretty early in the afternoon, so there's no hurry; he can sit there for hours if he wants, or leave and come back, or pretty much anything really. Ball's in his court.
Fifteen minutes before closing, I get called back up. Mr. Quiet's ready. In the middle of putting together a last-minute overnight order for one of our clients, I told the up-front girls to go ahead and take someone ahead of him, and that I'd be up in five minutes. When I made it up to there, the collection-in-progress was only halfway done, so I stood nearby and waited patiently for my turn.
From where I stood I could look into the reception area and out through the window into the waiting room. I watched as someone dumped $1.50 into our soda machine, skimmed over a couple waiting on an immigration physical, and to Mr. Quiet sitting in the corner. I gave him a polite nod.
Another minute goes by, and Mr. Quiet approached the receptionist. I couldn't hear what he said, and in fact didn't even know he had stepped up until I heard the up-front girl say, "Huh? Speak up sweetie, I can't hear you." Mr. Quiet glanced nervously at me, shrugged sheepishly, and said "I'm sorry man... it's nothing personal... just... I don't know what to make of that look." Then he turned back to the up-front girl and reinforced his point: "Didn't you see? He just gave me a really weird look. Like, really uncomfortable. Can someone else do the test?"
The up-front girl looked at me, stupefied. She didn't know the answer to the question (of course) but I did: "Sir, I'm the only male collector on duty today. It's me or no one."
"Can I come back tomorrow? I'm sorry but I'm just real uncomfortable."
"I'm pretty much the only male collector who works here, sir. You'll have to get in touch with your employer if you want to arrange to go somewhere else." That's actually only a half-truth: the president of the company is also certified to do collections, but let's be honest, nobody actually expects him to. If Mr. Quiet wants this drug test done, he's really only got the one option.
By now, the collection-in-progress is done and I retrieve Mr. Quiet's sheet. He follows me back, apologizing the whole way, repeating "I just really don't know what to make of that look... you know?"
A brief aside: Mr. Quiet's complaint about a "look" might not be completely unwarranted. I wasn't convinced he was a cheater at first, but his shabby performance during the first witnessed test didn't exactly win him any points with me. If the look on my face said "this guy is a scumbag cheater" when we locked eyes for one magical moment as I as scanning the lobby, well, you'll have to forgive me. More likely, Mr. Quiet was looking for any semi-legit opportunity to duck out of a drug test he knew he'd fail, no matter how flimsy the pretense.
So we went through the whole song and dance, the "empty your pockets please", the "you understand this test is to be witnessed", the whole nine yards. And again, he gives a shoddy ten second showing where he doesn't even pretend to try to urinate, then gives up. "I can't do it," he says. "I just can't do it."
Mr. Quiet elected to leave the office and return the next day, pending permission to do so from whatever hapless company thinks it wants to employ him.
The next day Mr. Quiet returned. His employer had given permission for a second witnessed test. However, this time when he saw that once again I was the only person available for the collection, he raised a small fuss about how he was assured it wouldn't be the guy who gave him the "weird look." We certainly assured him of no such thing. Perhaps his employer did, not knowing the circumstances, but in any case these assurances did not match reality. He left without even filling out the paperwork.
The next day (today) I learned that Mr. Quiet couldn't be witnessed because he had kidney stones. Now, I'm of the opinion that the man was just trying to duck a drug test by any means necessary. I admit that I could be wrong, and that the poor guy just doesn't want some other dude watching him pee. Maybe he gets stage fright really easily. But again, making excuses doesn't help his case any. After today's visit it seems Mr. Quiet finally gave up the fight and his prospective employer passed him over for one of the fifty guys standing behind him for the same job.
Sorry, Mr. Quiet. Don't leave it in the microwave so long next time, eh?
I enjoy watching people pump money into the soda machine because I'm the guy who stocks it and profits from it. *clack* *clack* *rumbarumba* *THUNK* -- Thanks for the twenty-six cents, mister!
3.21.2007
In May.
One of the pieces of information I put on your drug test form is your birthdate. I'm not precisely sure why this little morsel is the least bit important to the drug testing process, but then again I suppose I've never thought about it or cared enough about it to ask. In any case, it stands to reason that the odds you (as a donor) share a birthday with me (the collector) would be roughly 1 in 365. That's a relatively common occurrence when you consider how many collections I conduct.
Trying to calculate the odds that any given donor is a lunatic is a mite trickier. I'm not sure how I would go about it, but it works out that one out of every three hundred sixty-five of these lunatics shares my birthday. I was lucky enough to meet just such a woman on Monday.
Ms. Orange, so named for the impossibly orange sweater she was wearing, was a nice enough lady, but she seemed a little off. She asked a lot of weird and irrelevant questions ("Do you think they drug test the animals at the zoo?") and offered up a lot of not-particularly-helpful information ("I only eat organic food and drive a hybrid car -- will that affect anything?"). About the time she started asking if the doctor at our office used "healing crystals" I realized that she would never shut up unless I simply interrupted her, and that's exactly what I did.
"Oh, sorry," apologized Ms. Orange. "Didn't mean to take up so much time. I can't be here that much longer anyway, I have to get to class. I teach flute."
And with that she vanished into the bathroom.
I was just finishing up her paperwork when she emerged with this curious observation: "You were born in May, weren't you? I can tell."
"Come again?"
"Don't get me wrong, there's nothing wrong with that. You just seem... impatient. Not rude or anything, just all-business, you know?"
A pretty fair assessment of my mood on any given day, I suppose. "I wasn't born in May."
"Are you sure?"
Are you kidding?
"Yeah, pretty sure."
"When were you born, if you don't mind my asking?"
Having just copied her birthdate onto the paperwork twenty seconds prior, I reply: "Same day as you."
Ms. Orange frowned. "I'm serious."
"It's true. Same birthday, except six years apart."
She looked offended, and impossibly sad, as though sharing a birthday with someone who was impatient and all-business were some terrible thing. She didn't say anything weird after that, just silently signed the form, collected her belongings and left.
I tried to piece together what had happened afterwards. I'm almost perfectly sure that the month someone is born in has no bearing whatsoever on their personality -- and what's more, I'd never even heard anyone make such a claim before. It wouldn't surprise me to learn that Ms. Orange was into astrology, but then she would have identified me by a zodiac sign and not a month. I think.
Maybe she was just insulted that I pointed out she was six years older than me. Who knows.
In any case, if you're reading this, and you have a May birthday, let it be known that Ms. Orange (and probably everyone else who reads the same pseudo-astrology garbage she does) believes you are impatient and all-business by nature. That shouldn't irritate you, but if it does, just do what I do: picture Ms. Orange curled up in her beanbag chair inhaling a tub of organic ice cream because some kid pointed out that she's thirty years old. It certainly cheered me up.
According to my boss, we collect birthdates on the paperwork to serve as an identifier. I guess this is useful in case we spontaneously lose the donor's name, social security number, telephone number, employer information, and the sample's unique specimen ID number.
Trying to calculate the odds that any given donor is a lunatic is a mite trickier. I'm not sure how I would go about it, but it works out that one out of every three hundred sixty-five of these lunatics shares my birthday. I was lucky enough to meet just such a woman on Monday.
Ms. Orange, so named for the impossibly orange sweater she was wearing, was a nice enough lady, but she seemed a little off. She asked a lot of weird and irrelevant questions ("Do you think they drug test the animals at the zoo?") and offered up a lot of not-particularly-helpful information ("I only eat organic food and drive a hybrid car -- will that affect anything?"). About the time she started asking if the doctor at our office used "healing crystals" I realized that she would never shut up unless I simply interrupted her, and that's exactly what I did.
"Oh, sorry," apologized Ms. Orange. "Didn't mean to take up so much time. I can't be here that much longer anyway, I have to get to class. I teach flute."
And with that she vanished into the bathroom.
I was just finishing up her paperwork when she emerged with this curious observation: "You were born in May, weren't you? I can tell."
"Come again?"
"Don't get me wrong, there's nothing wrong with that. You just seem... impatient. Not rude or anything, just all-business, you know?"
A pretty fair assessment of my mood on any given day, I suppose. "I wasn't born in May."
"Are you sure?"
Are you kidding?
"Yeah, pretty sure."
"When were you born, if you don't mind my asking?"
Having just copied her birthdate onto the paperwork twenty seconds prior, I reply: "Same day as you."
Ms. Orange frowned. "I'm serious."
"It's true. Same birthday, except six years apart."
She looked offended, and impossibly sad, as though sharing a birthday with someone who was impatient and all-business were some terrible thing. She didn't say anything weird after that, just silently signed the form, collected her belongings and left.
I tried to piece together what had happened afterwards. I'm almost perfectly sure that the month someone is born in has no bearing whatsoever on their personality -- and what's more, I'd never even heard anyone make such a claim before. It wouldn't surprise me to learn that Ms. Orange was into astrology, but then she would have identified me by a zodiac sign and not a month. I think.
Maybe she was just insulted that I pointed out she was six years older than me. Who knows.
In any case, if you're reading this, and you have a May birthday, let it be known that Ms. Orange (and probably everyone else who reads the same pseudo-astrology garbage she does) believes you are impatient and all-business by nature. That shouldn't irritate you, but if it does, just do what I do: picture Ms. Orange curled up in her beanbag chair inhaling a tub of organic ice cream because some kid pointed out that she's thirty years old. It certainly cheered me up.
According to my boss, we collect birthdates on the paperwork to serve as an identifier. I guess this is useful in case we spontaneously lose the donor's name, social security number, telephone number, employer information, and the sample's unique specimen ID number.
3.08.2007
Never a good day.
I don't hate my job, not even in the least. It's a pretty sweet gig. I can't come to work and play six hours of PlayStation relatively uninterrupted anymore, but I still get to keep to myself and screw around on the internet most of the day. The vast majority of my responsibilities are stress-free, and even the most major and unthinkable screw-ups on my watch would only lead to re-doing fifteen minutes of work, worst case scenario.
But something dawned on me recently that I hadn't really thought about before, and it kind of weighs me down: I don't really have good days. It's entirely possible to have a bad day, which does happen once in a while, and is a mainstay at any job. Most of my days, naturally, are just regular days: clock in, do some combination of work and internet-slacking, clock out. But a good day? It's just not possible.
One of my first jobs was at an ice cream store. I used to love making the waffle cones. Two of my shifts every week consisted of me sitting at a row of waffle machines with two pans of cone batter on the counter in front of me and a CD player tucked into the pocket of my apron. Even on non-cone days there were little things that could occur to cheer me out of a sour mood, even something simple as a customer dropping five bucks in the tip jar after getting exactly what he wanted out of his ice cream experience. Maybe it was silly, but very good.
After high school I put a few months in as a sales rep for the Home Shopping Network. This consisted mostly of selling fake Susan Somers jewelery to women with twelve maxed Master Cards, but once in a while you'd get someone who has been looking for some rare coin or just the right size basketball jersey, and you could tell that just by completing a sale for them you'd made their day. I'm sure people working in pretty much any sales position experience this from time to time. I distinctly remember one time we were selling some kind of telescope as part of an after-Christmas sale, and a man called up asking if we still had any. He had tried to buy his son that very telescope for Christmas, but couldn't find one anywhere. Just the fact that this man would be able to share the galaxy with his son after all, and that I had played some roll in facilitating that dream, really made my night.
You might not think I could have a good day at my old pee clinic, and you'd be partially right. Nobody wants to take a drug test. At worse people verbally abuse you, try a thousand different ways to cheat, or eat up hours of your time because they can't muster enough urine to fill a 30ml cup. At best they come in, drop their sample, then leave indifferently. Even so, there were little unexpected niceties that would happen from time to time. Sometimes I'd walk up to the drug store and they'd have Vanilla Pepsi stocked instead of just regular Pepsi. Sometimes a friend would drop by for a few hours to play Street Fighter or watch a movie with me. Sometimes I would get a shipment of supplies exactly at the moment I needed them, completely unexpectedly. And sometimes I would just use the downtime to pursue one of my hobbies in a particularly exhilarating way. There were good days.
Nothing like that ever happens where I am now. On my best days I get my work done and go home. On the worst everything piles up and I get trapped in some monotonous office politics or chewed out by some client who can't figure out how our online ordering system works. Most days fall somewhere in-between.
I wonder if I'm bound to come across some positive surprises eventually, but in the meantime it just feels like I'm going through the motions. It's been a long time since my girlfriend asked me how my day was, and I was able to answer her with anything other than "Meh."
I'm trying to think of ways I can turn this around. Maybe I'm just in a slump and just need to stop crying about it.
Peemeistering is a thankless profession. Next time you're subjected to a drug test, don't forget to tell your collector how much you appreciate him handling your bodily waste.
But something dawned on me recently that I hadn't really thought about before, and it kind of weighs me down: I don't really have good days. It's entirely possible to have a bad day, which does happen once in a while, and is a mainstay at any job. Most of my days, naturally, are just regular days: clock in, do some combination of work and internet-slacking, clock out. But a good day? It's just not possible.
One of my first jobs was at an ice cream store. I used to love making the waffle cones. Two of my shifts every week consisted of me sitting at a row of waffle machines with two pans of cone batter on the counter in front of me and a CD player tucked into the pocket of my apron. Even on non-cone days there were little things that could occur to cheer me out of a sour mood, even something simple as a customer dropping five bucks in the tip jar after getting exactly what he wanted out of his ice cream experience. Maybe it was silly, but very good.
After high school I put a few months in as a sales rep for the Home Shopping Network. This consisted mostly of selling fake Susan Somers jewelery to women with twelve maxed Master Cards, but once in a while you'd get someone who has been looking for some rare coin or just the right size basketball jersey, and you could tell that just by completing a sale for them you'd made their day. I'm sure people working in pretty much any sales position experience this from time to time. I distinctly remember one time we were selling some kind of telescope as part of an after-Christmas sale, and a man called up asking if we still had any. He had tried to buy his son that very telescope for Christmas, but couldn't find one anywhere. Just the fact that this man would be able to share the galaxy with his son after all, and that I had played some roll in facilitating that dream, really made my night.
You might not think I could have a good day at my old pee clinic, and you'd be partially right. Nobody wants to take a drug test. At worse people verbally abuse you, try a thousand different ways to cheat, or eat up hours of your time because they can't muster enough urine to fill a 30ml cup. At best they come in, drop their sample, then leave indifferently. Even so, there were little unexpected niceties that would happen from time to time. Sometimes I'd walk up to the drug store and they'd have Vanilla Pepsi stocked instead of just regular Pepsi. Sometimes a friend would drop by for a few hours to play Street Fighter or watch a movie with me. Sometimes I would get a shipment of supplies exactly at the moment I needed them, completely unexpectedly. And sometimes I would just use the downtime to pursue one of my hobbies in a particularly exhilarating way. There were good days.
Nothing like that ever happens where I am now. On my best days I get my work done and go home. On the worst everything piles up and I get trapped in some monotonous office politics or chewed out by some client who can't figure out how our online ordering system works. Most days fall somewhere in-between.
I wonder if I'm bound to come across some positive surprises eventually, but in the meantime it just feels like I'm going through the motions. It's been a long time since my girlfriend asked me how my day was, and I was able to answer her with anything other than "Meh."
I'm trying to think of ways I can turn this around. Maybe I'm just in a slump and just need to stop crying about it.
Peemeistering is a thankless profession. Next time you're subjected to a drug test, don't forget to tell your collector how much you appreciate him handling your bodily waste.
2.05.2007
Off my game.
My girlfriend and I moved into our new apartment last weekend. Our respective families got together to move all our heavy furniture and video games, so it was decided that I would buy McDonald's for everyone. My brother and I ran down to the nearest branch, smack-dab in the middle of the Saturday lunch rush.
A man burst in holding his cell phone, complaining he had gone through the drive-thru and not received any straws. He muscled his way through everyone else in line and raised a huge fuss, even after one of the clerks had given him some straws. He demanded to see the manager. He demanded the manager give him free food. "I called ya'll from the parking lot and ain't none of ya picked up the phone! What kinda business is this!?"
The kind that is busier than hell at 12:30pm on a Saturday, Jethro. It was a simple, human mistake. Calm down.
I told you that story to tell you this story...
A young lady appears, 18 or 19 years old. I was already fairly shaken from my last two harrowing drug test experiences (see below) and I was more or less just ready to not do any more collections today and go take a nap. In retrospect, maybe I should have.
The young lady puts her purse in the lockbox and washes her hands as I do the paperwork. She points out helpfully, "Isn't that the wrong date?"
Sure enough, it was. "You're right," I told her, "thanks." I changed the date and handed her the cup.
"Thanks," she said, going into the bathroom. Then she paused. "Um... do I need to close this myself?"
I had forgotten to lock the lockbox. Curses. Kind of defeats the purpose of the lockbox, doesn't it?
I squeeze past her and lock it up, and repeat the instructions to her. A few minutes later she comes back with the sample, which I pour into the bottle, which she then initials.
It isn't until after she's signed her form and I've sealed everything up that I realize I'd forgotten to sign my copy.
With an ample supply of egg on my face, I explain that I now have to cut open the sample bag and remove the paperwork due to an error on my part. "I apologize, I'm usually not this far off my game."
She seemed amused.
Workers in the service industry labor under the misbelief that people, in general, are stupid. A first-time Starbucks customer who orders a small coffee instead of a tall coffee, for example, does so not because he hasn't been educated on the labyrinthine nuances of Starbucks's menu, but because he is a gibbering troglodyte unworthy of human interaction. They take his $6.50 and then laugh at him in the break room.
It took me a long time, and several customer service jobs, to finally realize that the stupidity myth is pretty baseless. It has more to do with everyone being human, than anyone being stupid. Everyone makes mistakes, and in a culture that demands perfection this looks like stupidity. Nobody knows everything, but everyone expects that of everyone else.
I, like you, make a lot of mistakes at my job. And, like you, I'm able to correct the vast majority of them before they become issues. But once in a while I'll be completely out of the lines, and I'll have to fess up. It's not a big deal. It happens.
The young lady whose urine I was packing up probably thought I was one of the unwashed gibbering troglodytes whom she would soon be making fun of in the break room of the check cashing place that just hired her. Oh well.
After dealing with the irate man's straws, the McDonald's clerk handed me my food. I noticed she had forgotten my drinks. I pointed it out to her politely, and she retrieved them for me with a quick "Sorry about that, have a nice day." I thought that was a fairly good solution to our little problem, rather than raising hell and looking like a total jerk, just for a free box of fries.
Two mistakes in a row. I don't know if that's good or bad for a McDonald's clerk, but I tend to think she was just a little off her game. As are we all, from time to time.
And this was anecdote the third, which concludes my stories of the longest drug testing day ever. Hope you enjoyed them.
A man burst in holding his cell phone, complaining he had gone through the drive-thru and not received any straws. He muscled his way through everyone else in line and raised a huge fuss, even after one of the clerks had given him some straws. He demanded to see the manager. He demanded the manager give him free food. "I called ya'll from the parking lot and ain't none of ya picked up the phone! What kinda business is this!?"
The kind that is busier than hell at 12:30pm on a Saturday, Jethro. It was a simple, human mistake. Calm down.
I told you that story to tell you this story...
A young lady appears, 18 or 19 years old. I was already fairly shaken from my last two harrowing drug test experiences (see below) and I was more or less just ready to not do any more collections today and go take a nap. In retrospect, maybe I should have.
The young lady puts her purse in the lockbox and washes her hands as I do the paperwork. She points out helpfully, "Isn't that the wrong date?"
Sure enough, it was. "You're right," I told her, "thanks." I changed the date and handed her the cup.
"Thanks," she said, going into the bathroom. Then she paused. "Um... do I need to close this myself?"
I had forgotten to lock the lockbox. Curses. Kind of defeats the purpose of the lockbox, doesn't it?
I squeeze past her and lock it up, and repeat the instructions to her. A few minutes later she comes back with the sample, which I pour into the bottle, which she then initials.
It isn't until after she's signed her form and I've sealed everything up that I realize I'd forgotten to sign my copy.
With an ample supply of egg on my face, I explain that I now have to cut open the sample bag and remove the paperwork due to an error on my part. "I apologize, I'm usually not this far off my game."
She seemed amused.
Workers in the service industry labor under the misbelief that people, in general, are stupid. A first-time Starbucks customer who orders a small coffee instead of a tall coffee, for example, does so not because he hasn't been educated on the labyrinthine nuances of Starbucks's menu, but because he is a gibbering troglodyte unworthy of human interaction. They take his $6.50 and then laugh at him in the break room.
It took me a long time, and several customer service jobs, to finally realize that the stupidity myth is pretty baseless. It has more to do with everyone being human, than anyone being stupid. Everyone makes mistakes, and in a culture that demands perfection this looks like stupidity. Nobody knows everything, but everyone expects that of everyone else.
I, like you, make a lot of mistakes at my job. And, like you, I'm able to correct the vast majority of them before they become issues. But once in a while I'll be completely out of the lines, and I'll have to fess up. It's not a big deal. It happens.
The young lady whose urine I was packing up probably thought I was one of the unwashed gibbering troglodytes whom she would soon be making fun of in the break room of the check cashing place that just hired her. Oh well.
After dealing with the irate man's straws, the McDonald's clerk handed me my food. I noticed she had forgotten my drinks. I pointed it out to her politely, and she retrieved them for me with a quick "Sorry about that, have a nice day." I thought that was a fairly good solution to our little problem, rather than raising hell and looking like a total jerk, just for a free box of fries.
Two mistakes in a row. I don't know if that's good or bad for a McDonald's clerk, but I tend to think she was just a little off her game. As are we all, from time to time.
And this was anecdote the third, which concludes my stories of the longest drug testing day ever. Hope you enjoyed them.
1.24.2007
Crossing The Line.
People are sometimes hardheaded and stubborn for no reason other than they want to be hardheaded and stubborn. Case in point: The Line.
The Line was a tall man who had come in to do a pre-employment drug test for a towing company, which means he has a commercial driver's license, and therefore his drug test needs to follow federal rather than state standards. The Line's major problem is that he's a clown, and as veteran peemeister readers will know I am fairly incompatible with clowns.
When I ask someone a question about a service they are providing me, I like to get a clear and honest answer. When someone asks me a question about the drug test collection I'm conducting, I like to make my answers as clear and honest as possible. This creates a surprising amount of friction with some people, and it baffles me as to why. The Line is a perfect example of this.
When I asked The Line to place his things in the lockbox he asked me, "How do I know you won't take anything?" This is a perfectly reasonable question. The answer, of course, is that he'll be in the bathroom with all his stuff locked up in a box, and I'll have the key outside. Neither of us can access the materials in the lockbox. Halfway through explaining this to The Line, however, he interrupts me by saying: "How do I know you ain't a magician?"
So, now I have to temporarily abandon the first question and answer the second: "Sir, I assure you I'm not a magician. Neither of us will be able to touch the things in the box." Yes, the magician question was a joke. But I still had to answer it seriously. Why? Because what if it wasn't a joke? Crazier things have happened. The running theme here is that people will try anything, absolutely anything to cheat on a drug test, if they have to.
Now that the foolishness about me being a sorcerer are put aside, I try to revisit the original question about the lockbox and the key. But again, he interrupts me: "Man, it was a joke. I'm just messin' with you."
"I try not to mess around at work, sir," I tell him. And this was the point I crossed the line with The Line.
Not appreciating his joke was essentially the most horrid thing I could have possibly done to this man. From this point on it was a war. Every instruction I gave him was a battle. Everything was met with an icy stare. He suddenly had a problem with washing his hands with cold water. (Why is there no hot water in the sink next to our bathroom? Beats me, but there isn't.) He is entitled to hot water. He wants to know why he can't flush the toilet. I can't get two words out of my mouth without another interruption about how rude I am or how ridiculous drug testing is.
Eventually we manage to get The Line's sample poured into the split bottles. All that's left is for him to initial the bottles, sign the forms, and then I can be rid of him. He snatches the two bottles from my hands, stares me right in the eyes, and without breaking his gaze he quickly and flippantly puts a line on each sticker.
"Sir, I need you to please initial each bottle."
"Those are my initials."
"That's just a line."
"That's how I write my initials."
"I need you to please write T. L."
Again he snatches the two bottles and scribbles the initials T. L. onto each one in the most terrible chicken-scratch handwriting I've ever seen in my life. He practically throws them at me. "There. We done?"
"No sir," I reply as I place the bottles in the sample bag. "Now I need you to read and sign step five, right h--"
The Line snatches the pen from my hand before I can finish and very firmly draws a line in the signature field. Well, at least it's the correct field.
"Sir, I need you to actually sign your name."
"That's my name."
"Sir, that's a line."
"That's how I sign my name."
"No, it isn't."
"Are you patronizing me, boy?"
"No, but I can see your signature on your driver's license, and it isn't a line."
"I don't care."
The Line crosses his arms. We are at an impasse. There's no way I'm going to get him to sign the form. There are a lot of things I could explain to The Line. For example, I could explain that his company may choose not to hire him if he refuses to take a drug test (which, by the way, is what he's doing if he doesn't sign the paperwork saying it's his sample). I could explain that the lab might get audited by the Department of Transportation, his sample might get pulled out of their freezer, and they might find his refusal to test and revoke his license. He might face fines or, worse, lose his CDL forever. Which means no more working in his field. For the rest of his life.
Of course, I can't get any of this out. He red-lights every word I say by reaffirming: "I don't care."
"Okay," I shrug. I hand him his copies of the paperwork and send him on his way. Once he's gone, I write "REFUSED TO SIGN FORM" in huge letters in the remarks field on the lab's copy of the form.
The company which sent The Line to our office is actually pretty lax about the federal standards they're supposed to follow, so chances are good that nothing will happen to The Line. However, I've dealt with companies that will blacklist people who refuse to test. I've had more than a couple desperate phone calls from men who were tough and invincible on drug test day, who now all of a sudden have lost their job or their license and need me to fix it.
The DoT standards are strict and maybe a little cruel, but they are what they are. I can't imagine anyone who works in a field that requires a CDL could possibly not know that. Why anyone would risk their livelihood because some kid didn't think his lame joke was funny is beyond my grasp.
This was anecdote the second. I'll post the third in a couple of days.
The Line was a tall man who had come in to do a pre-employment drug test for a towing company, which means he has a commercial driver's license, and therefore his drug test needs to follow federal rather than state standards. The Line's major problem is that he's a clown, and as veteran peemeister readers will know I am fairly incompatible with clowns.
When I ask someone a question about a service they are providing me, I like to get a clear and honest answer. When someone asks me a question about the drug test collection I'm conducting, I like to make my answers as clear and honest as possible. This creates a surprising amount of friction with some people, and it baffles me as to why. The Line is a perfect example of this.
When I asked The Line to place his things in the lockbox he asked me, "How do I know you won't take anything?" This is a perfectly reasonable question. The answer, of course, is that he'll be in the bathroom with all his stuff locked up in a box, and I'll have the key outside. Neither of us can access the materials in the lockbox. Halfway through explaining this to The Line, however, he interrupts me by saying: "How do I know you ain't a magician?"
So, now I have to temporarily abandon the first question and answer the second: "Sir, I assure you I'm not a magician. Neither of us will be able to touch the things in the box." Yes, the magician question was a joke. But I still had to answer it seriously. Why? Because what if it wasn't a joke? Crazier things have happened. The running theme here is that people will try anything, absolutely anything to cheat on a drug test, if they have to.
Now that the foolishness about me being a sorcerer are put aside, I try to revisit the original question about the lockbox and the key. But again, he interrupts me: "Man, it was a joke. I'm just messin' with you."
"I try not to mess around at work, sir," I tell him. And this was the point I crossed the line with The Line.
Not appreciating his joke was essentially the most horrid thing I could have possibly done to this man. From this point on it was a war. Every instruction I gave him was a battle. Everything was met with an icy stare. He suddenly had a problem with washing his hands with cold water. (Why is there no hot water in the sink next to our bathroom? Beats me, but there isn't.) He is entitled to hot water. He wants to know why he can't flush the toilet. I can't get two words out of my mouth without another interruption about how rude I am or how ridiculous drug testing is.
Eventually we manage to get The Line's sample poured into the split bottles. All that's left is for him to initial the bottles, sign the forms, and then I can be rid of him. He snatches the two bottles from my hands, stares me right in the eyes, and without breaking his gaze he quickly and flippantly puts a line on each sticker.
"Sir, I need you to please initial each bottle."
"Those are my initials."
"That's just a line."
"That's how I write my initials."
"I need you to please write T. L."
Again he snatches the two bottles and scribbles the initials T. L. onto each one in the most terrible chicken-scratch handwriting I've ever seen in my life. He practically throws them at me. "There. We done?"
"No sir," I reply as I place the bottles in the sample bag. "Now I need you to read and sign step five, right h--"
The Line snatches the pen from my hand before I can finish and very firmly draws a line in the signature field. Well, at least it's the correct field.
"Sir, I need you to actually sign your name."
"That's my name."
"Sir, that's a line."
"That's how I sign my name."
"No, it isn't."
"Are you patronizing me, boy?"
"No, but I can see your signature on your driver's license, and it isn't a line."
"I don't care."
The Line crosses his arms. We are at an impasse. There's no way I'm going to get him to sign the form. There are a lot of things I could explain to The Line. For example, I could explain that his company may choose not to hire him if he refuses to take a drug test (which, by the way, is what he's doing if he doesn't sign the paperwork saying it's his sample). I could explain that the lab might get audited by the Department of Transportation, his sample might get pulled out of their freezer, and they might find his refusal to test and revoke his license. He might face fines or, worse, lose his CDL forever. Which means no more working in his field. For the rest of his life.
Of course, I can't get any of this out. He red-lights every word I say by reaffirming: "I don't care."
"Okay," I shrug. I hand him his copies of the paperwork and send him on his way. Once he's gone, I write "REFUSED TO SIGN FORM" in huge letters in the remarks field on the lab's copy of the form.
The company which sent The Line to our office is actually pretty lax about the federal standards they're supposed to follow, so chances are good that nothing will happen to The Line. However, I've dealt with companies that will blacklist people who refuse to test. I've had more than a couple desperate phone calls from men who were tough and invincible on drug test day, who now all of a sudden have lost their job or their license and need me to fix it.
The DoT standards are strict and maybe a little cruel, but they are what they are. I can't imagine anyone who works in a field that requires a CDL could possibly not know that. Why anyone would risk their livelihood because some kid didn't think his lame joke was funny is beyond my grasp.
This was anecdote the second. I'll post the third in a couple of days.
1.17.2007
Nothing to hide.
First thing's first, I want to offer a quick apology to my readers (new, old and incidental) for the long stretches of time in-between updates. Truth is the drug test collections as this office are a lot less "fun" as in my old one, which means far fewer interesting stories. Rather than fill my blog up with off-topic posts or jamming it with filler, I think it's better that I just stay quiet until I have a story worth telling. I guess this is just a "once in a while" blog. Put me at the bottom of your bookmarks list and check with me once a month or so.
That said, the dry spell is at least momentarily over. Today presented me with three most assuredly blogworthy anecdotes, which I'll be doling out over the course of the next week. Anecdote the first is as follows...
This gentleman assured me, multiple times, that he had taken drug tests before and knew the procedure. "I ain't got nothin' to hide," said he, as I was opening the collection kit.
"That's good," I replied. "Go ahead and wash and dry your hands please."
The gentleman is a Mexican immigrant, but he speaks English fairly well. He understands my instructions and can carry on a conversation, so the horror to follow was not a translation error or a misunderstanding on his part. He seems very intent on making sure I understand that he knows the procedure inside and out. Everything I tell him, he meets with a sagely nod and a muttering of "Yep, I remember."
I ask the gentleman to empty his pockets into the lockbox, then turn around to finish filling out his paperwork. Name, birthdate, phone number, so on and so forth. I turn back around so I can lock the box and...
...he's taken all his clothes off.
Hand to God.
Jeans, flannel shirt, and tighty-whities are sitting in a pile on the bathroom floor. The man is, and please pardon the expression, dick-and-balls naked.
"Sir," I told him as I tried to look at anything other than his junk, "please put your clothes back on." I couldn't even believe what I was saying, as I was saying it. Several different variations of "You must flee!" were running through my head. It is actually surprisingly difficult to retain your composure when someone violates your comfort zone by dropping his scrotum into it.
The man did not get dressed. He excused his behavior with "Oh, I don't want no one to think I'm sneaking anything in, or nothin'."
I asked him a few times to please for the love of all that is good put his pants back on. He kept declining. So what could I do? I handed him the cup and showed him the line.
I went through the rest of the collection in something like a trance. After placing his full cup on the counter the man very casually got dressed, as though what had happened were the most natural thing in the world. Other than the sudden and unsolicited nudity, there were no problems during the collection at all.
Not really sure what to do, I figured that would be a really good time to take a break for a while and go get some lunch. Only now as I write this do I find it hilarious that, after such an encounter, I would have the sudden urge to buy a hot dog.
Any and all penis/hot dog jokes are appreciated. I'm sure you guys can come up with dozens.
That said, the dry spell is at least momentarily over. Today presented me with three most assuredly blogworthy anecdotes, which I'll be doling out over the course of the next week. Anecdote the first is as follows...
This gentleman assured me, multiple times, that he had taken drug tests before and knew the procedure. "I ain't got nothin' to hide," said he, as I was opening the collection kit.
"That's good," I replied. "Go ahead and wash and dry your hands please."
The gentleman is a Mexican immigrant, but he speaks English fairly well. He understands my instructions and can carry on a conversation, so the horror to follow was not a translation error or a misunderstanding on his part. He seems very intent on making sure I understand that he knows the procedure inside and out. Everything I tell him, he meets with a sagely nod and a muttering of "Yep, I remember."
I ask the gentleman to empty his pockets into the lockbox, then turn around to finish filling out his paperwork. Name, birthdate, phone number, so on and so forth. I turn back around so I can lock the box and...
...he's taken all his clothes off.
Hand to God.
Jeans, flannel shirt, and tighty-whities are sitting in a pile on the bathroom floor. The man is, and please pardon the expression, dick-and-balls naked.
"Sir," I told him as I tried to look at anything other than his junk, "please put your clothes back on." I couldn't even believe what I was saying, as I was saying it. Several different variations of "You must flee!" were running through my head. It is actually surprisingly difficult to retain your composure when someone violates your comfort zone by dropping his scrotum into it.
The man did not get dressed. He excused his behavior with "Oh, I don't want no one to think I'm sneaking anything in, or nothin'."
I asked him a few times to please for the love of all that is good put his pants back on. He kept declining. So what could I do? I handed him the cup and showed him the line.
I went through the rest of the collection in something like a trance. After placing his full cup on the counter the man very casually got dressed, as though what had happened were the most natural thing in the world. Other than the sudden and unsolicited nudity, there were no problems during the collection at all.
Not really sure what to do, I figured that would be a really good time to take a break for a while and go get some lunch. Only now as I write this do I find it hilarious that, after such an encounter, I would have the sudden urge to buy a hot dog.
Any and all penis/hot dog jokes are appreciated. I'm sure you guys can come up with dozens.
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