STRANGER THAN FICTION: NEW-JOB PHYSICAL PROVES INTERESTING

Thanks to my recent employment with the Southeast Missourian, I had my very first physical and drug test last week.

Not that I'm complaining. I love my job very much, Mr. Publisher, and would like to keep it for a long, long time. But the physical and drug test were fairly interesting and very humiliating.

First was the questionnaire, which began with a few routine questions: Have you had any broken bones? Is there a history of heart disease in your family? Have you tested positive for any STDs? If so, which ones?

I flew through the first 70 or so questions. No, no, no.

But the last section dealt with mental health. For example: When criticized, is your first reaction to scream at the speaker?

That one wasn't so easy. Well, yes, my VERY first reaction is usually to scream at the speaker. Isn't everyone's? Most of us, however, have a brain mechanism that prevents what we think from actually escaping our mouths. That works so that normal conversations can go...

BOSS: Jones, if you can't fry onion rings any better than that, I'm going to find someone who can.

JONES (thinks): Let me inform you as to where you might place this onion ring, twit.

JONES (says): Sorry, sir.

I checked "no" on the screaming issue. The next question was something like: Do you often shake and cry, feeling that your life has no meaning?

At this point, I was trying to picture what sort of idiot, when up for a job he really wants, is going to admit he shakes and cries, feeling his life has no meaning.

I checked "no" again.

Then came the drug test. A nurse gave me a small cup with a very generous opening and told me to fill it, then split the contents between two containers with smaller openings.

No matter how untrue this may sound after reading my column, I've never done illegal drugs. Oh, sure, I've hit the Ny-Quil a little too hard on occasion, but it was in the privacy of my own home. Now I was being asked to "donate" -- that's really what the form said -- a certain bodily fluid for testing.

The donation process proved to be a little messy, so I looked for the soap. No soap. I turned on the faucet. No water.

I peaked around the door with my little containers. "Uh, there's no water in here," I whispered to the nurse.

"It's controlled from out here," she whispered back.

I'm not exactly sure what damage I'd do if left alone with two containers of urine and some running water.

The worst part was in the examination room. After stripping down to the bare essentials and putting on two sheets of paper, I was left in a 65-degree room for 32 minutes. No exaggeration. Sure, I played with the blood pressure cuff and tongue depressors before turning up the Muzak so I could boogie to the cool sounds of Barry Manilow, but the fun only lasted so long.

The doctor finally came in. "Are you cold?" he asked.

Duh.

It ended up I had stripped so that I could have my ears checked and my reflexes tested. I had to pull on his finger, but don't ask me why.

Anyway, I got a clean bill of health, which is the important thing.

Congratulations go out this week to Ex-Mr. Dreams, my former boyfriend, who recently got a job as a sports editor in the Southeast Missourian Family of Newspapers. This leads to an important question.

Where's that hundred bucks you owe me, buddy?

And on the same subject, I had my first two dates since The Big Dump. I was either dateless or with Ex-Mr. Dreams for the last four years. In my absence, the dating world turned into a jungle.

Case in point. A new friend of mine wanted to set me up on a blind date with his brother. I said OK. My friend asked me if my dates had to have all their hair.

But more on that later.

~Heidi Nieland is a member of the Southeast Missourian news staff.