Don't tell me God doesn't have a sense of humor...

This morning I woke up and said to myself “I think today is going to be a good day.” The month of Job (the book in the bible, not work) reenactments are over, no more August until next year. Thinking that with any luck I may actually make it through a 24 hour period without any major dramatic episodes I got my butt out of bed and went to Starbucks to celebrate what I hope to be a far better month. Freaking Pumpkin Spice Lattes are back. I could not contain my excitement; I will be at Starbucks a lot for the next 3 months. I got to work and started the day well, and then I got a call from the doctor. After a lab test that ended in my passed out body being carried to the bed in the back of the office, I expected nothing short of stellar results…I got this message “Tiffany, your levels seem good, but we need you to come back in and get jugs for you to urinate in for 24 hours.” You have got to be kidding me. You want ME to pee in a jug, every time I pee, for an entire day. Maybe they aren’t familiar with the fact that my bladder is the size of a small child’s. Maybe they don’t realize I am really clumsy and I don’t need to go into detail about the many ways that could end badly. I went to get the jug and they give me what is basically a potty chair for an adult, and tell me I have to stick my pee jugs in the fridge. I was also given a very large bioharzard bag with two large orange jugs for "when I go." Apparently using the word pee is frowned upon in the medical profession. I feel like it would have been more appropriate for me to leave the hospital in a gas mask and protective suit as opposed my street clothes carrying that kind of monstrosity. Hello September, it seems that you will be welcomed with a full day of me pouring my own pee on myself. You lucky bastard.