I sat in my car and nervously picked at the pages of my novel du jour (Wally Lamb's "She's Come Undone). I didn't want to go into the little office with the blue writing on the glass door: "LABCORP."
Breathing deeply I gathered my things and pushed open the door. I walked up to the little window and announced to the woman behind the glass: "Hello. My name is Holly. I'm here to take my drug test."
Now, although past blogs may suggest differently, I am not a druggie. Nope. Never did care much for the stuff. So it wasn't that I was worried of failing. No, I worried more about my, well, aim. And my fears doubled when the slight blonde nurse handed me a vial that was no larger than a pill bottle.
"Are you kidding me?" I blurted. "Do I get a funnel with this?" The two nurses paused and burst out laughing. "I mean, seriously, do you really expect me to be able to hit the mark with this?"
I was handed a larger beaker. "Here," she said, beaming at me in her pink polka dot scrubs, "try this one."
Why can't the medical profession, with all its wonders in technology and advancements in medicine, make something that makes peeing in a cup easier?