All Clean

That Sound You Hear? » New Orleans by Toby Keith
Days Until I Own Lost On DVD » 4
Big News » Authority figures are predicting gas prices around here to top out at around $4 a gallon. That disgusts me. I'm getting in line for an Insight.

Now, today's story...

That post office job I've been speaking of for several months is inching ever closer. I'm afraid the hype is going to outweigh the thing itself. In fact, I'm sure of it.

But as you may or may not know (or care to know), my interview for the position of mind-numbingly dull data entry person happened last Saturday. At which point I was directed to schedule an eMAP appointment which, to the best of my knowledge at the time, had to do with a drug test.

Well that was this morning. In fact the clinic where this was to take place was in the Tampa International Airport post office. Why the post office at the airport? Why the post office at all? These are questions which no coherent answer could ever satisfy.

So I live in Brandon. So it's a relatively short drive, but consider the state of the roadways in the city of Tampa. For those of you not from around these parts, they are in utter disrepair. And by "utter disrepair," I of course mean "under construction." To say the least, it isn't a smooth drive. Never has been as far as I can tell.

But the important thing was I thought I was getting to go to the airport. I do love airports. It's a logical step up from a love of travel. If I could fly someplace right now, I would. Dammit, I would. Only not New Orleans. I don't care much for boating. (Forgive my poor taste. I honestly do feel for the people there and all along the coast.)

Urine test. Right. Digression is a villain to a narrative writer. So I got off I-275 and took Westshore to Spruce where I discovered the airport post office wasn't exactly where the Google map said it was. I drove in circles around west Tampa before deciding to give the road signs a shot. I followed them into the airport and all the way to the post office. Imagine that. Useful road signs.

My eMAP packet directs me to the second floor, room 202. But there was a problem with that too. For one thing, the elevators were hidden. But more importantly, no one answered the door I was told to knock on. However, a phone number taped to the door suggested who to call in such a situation. I did and Nurse Linda told me to meet her downstairs.

Before even getting around to finding out what my name was, her first question to me was, "Do you have to go to the bathroom?" To which I replied "yes." To which she replied, "Good, because that's the most important question of the day." (Look at that Lindsay, I've taken to stenography. Just like you've always wanted.)

I'd go on, but the dialogue gets even less-interesting (if that's possible). She handed me a cup to fill and away I went. (Details expunged here for obvious reasons.) Then Nurse Linda showed me how this fancy cup she poured my "specimen" into could actually tell if I'd be high recently within minutes.

Having little to no interest in science or anything like it, I couldn't really have cared less. But evidently there are these blue markers on the side of the cup (reminiscent of a pregnancy test — not that I'd know) under abbreviations that spell out jail time should any of them come up positive.

No worries though, I was completely clean. No amphetamines. No cocaine. No PCP. No morphine. No pot. All clean.

So that pretty much spelled my day. Taking a leak in a cup. And watching a few airplanes fly away.

Now if only we could figure out a way to get gas prices to go back down.

It's Almost Here: My number of the day above explains the reason why those who know me should expect, starting next Tuesday, little to no human interaction with me (like that's anything new). I'm stopping at Best Buy on my way to school and picking up the first season of Lost on DVD. The portable DVD player will be physically attached to me until I have viewed every second of every disc.