And the award for the most awkward employee goes to ...

I can't even begin to express how much I am going to miss having a Mac at work with Photo Booth.

Oh Photo Booth, you have given me countless hours of entertainment on the slowest of work days and have served as a beacon of guidance, an uncritical mirror in which I can check my hair and makeup without ridicule. 

But seriously, where were you today? My hair looks like a FRIZZ BALL.

Today is my second to last day at my current publishing gig and let me tell ya, it is quieter than a mortuary in here. Everyone is gone (and when I say "everyone" I mean all of the salary people that have oodles of vacation time to burn up before the year is over and have the luxury of not being here the day before Thanksgiving so they can be at home preparing food, hanging out with loved ones, buying elastic pants or doing whatever it is people do to prep for the holiday). I like the quiet; it's giving me a chance to chit chat with my favorite co-worker and tie up loose ends before I bid this place adieu, but still, if given the opportunity I would much prefer to be at home sleeping or baking pies. 

And since there's virtually no one here today, those of us who did show up got to dress extremely causal and comfy. But guess who had a severe brain fart this morning and didn't realize that the volleyball t-shirt she put on has displayed, in hot pink letters, the name of the company she's leaving this job for?

----------------> Thiiiis girl! 

I am SO embarrassed. I even offered to go home and change. I was just so excited to wear my old volleyball t-shirt that I didn't even consider what the team's name was, let alone figure that it being blazoned across my chest in giant font would be an issue.  I feel awful. And of course, my boss was here today and yes, she noticed.


Yesterday after work I had to go to the County Health Department building to take a drug test for my new job. I've never touched drugs in my life, so I think it was a complete waste of time. But I understand that they have to go through this process with everyone, they can't just take your word for it, and yadda yadda yadda. So after emptying all of my pockets and setting my purse at least 2 arm's lengths away from me, I sat down at a round table and watched as the receptionist switched off the water supply to the bathroom and propped the door open with a trash can.

"Alrighty," she said, a bit too cheerfully for someone who was about to handle my urine. "Come on in!"

"You're not going to watch me are you?" I asked.

She tilted her pretty head to the side, "Oh goodness, no! This isn't prison. Just bring your sample out to me when your done!"

Bring it where, out here? Like, walk out into this waiting room full of patients with a plastic mason jar of my own pee?

After suffering the indignity of relieving myself in a dixie cup and not even being granted permission to wash my hands afterwards, I slowly crept out of the bathroom with my "sample" held out in front of me. I awkwardly handed it over to the receptionist and started to put on my coat. "Well, thanks ..." I mumbled to the stranger who now knew me on an intimate level I was not comfortable with. 

"Hold on a second!" the receptionist chirped, patting the seat next to her. "The law requires you to sit here and watch me prepare your sample for the lab."

You've got to be kidding me.

There's something extremely humiliating about watching another person handle your urine. Methodically, the receptionist snapped on a pair of rubber gloves and started dumping my "sample" into various small plastic tubes. I suddenly felt very insecure. Did my pee look too diluted from all the water I drank today? Did I fill the container too much? Was she judging me?

I kept trying to look away, but would then scold myself and reluctantly shift my eyes back to her unsanitary science experiment because I was supposed to make sure she didn't tamper with my wee-wee. It was the longest 2 minutes of my life. 

"All done!" she said happily as she placed the vials into a plastic baggie. "I just need you to sign here, please."  She pushed a pen and piece of paper towards me.

When I looked at the form I was about to sign, the first thing I noticed was the name of the County Health Department's head M.D.

Awesome. It was the same doctor who just two years ago sat in a different office and told me I had horrendous acne when I went to him to discuss my poison ivy. It was the same doctor who humiliated me and sent me to my car in a hysterical fit of tears because I felt like the most repulsive girl on the planet.

I hope he spills my "sample" all over his stupid doctor shoes.


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