Have you handled monkeys or monkey fluids in the last six months?

*blink*

You know, you get some very odd questions on the form you have to fill out when you want to donate blood here in The Great White North. It seems that every time I go the questions have gotten just a little bit more odd. But today, well today I found myself laughing out loud as I read the form.

Don't think that didn't raise a few eyebrows, because it did. But seriously �

MONKEYS????!!!!

MONKEY FLUIDS????!!!!

Oh, yeah, pretend that you are too adult to see the term "monkey fluids" and think the words "OMIGAWD MONKEY SPUNK". Yeah, yeah, sure, sure, I believe they never crossed your mind.

Fibber.

To be completely above board here, I love monkeys. More than once I've turned to the spousal unit as he's been channel surfing and forced him to park at a show featuring simians because (and I'm sure I speak for us all here) Everything Is Better With A Monkey.

And now, now, H�ma Qu�bec demands that if I want to give blood I have to foreswear the possibility of ever having a monkey in my life.

It's hard not to be bitter.

My blood donation went better this time than last because today I had the foresight to empty out my purse to bare essentials and thus spare myself massive amounts of guilt.

Purse? Guilt?

Ah, well, see the thing is that a bazillion teensy tiny elderly women always volunteer at these blood drives. One of the jobs they're given is to escort the person who's just given blood between the donor station and the lounge station. Said lounge station is where the donor has to lounge for the longest five minutes of their life, unless some other donor provides entertainment by fainting.

I live for the fainting, of course. Today, no fainting. You can well imagine my disappointment.

Last time I gave blood the teensy tiny elderly woman assigned to escort me was so frail that the weight of my coat almost bowed her over. I don't quite get why they have these people provide escort, because had I fainted en route there was no way she could have held me up. My 150 pounds would have shattered her into tiny granny granules.

Even worse? The effort to lift my purse, which probably weighed in at close to 10 pounds last time because What Is The Point of Leaving the House Without Everything You Might Possibly Need, almost killed my aged escort. But she refused to let me carry said purse because that was her job and dagnabbit she was going to do her job, even if it killed her.

Longest walk of my life.

So glad she lived.

Today's granny was particularly itsy bitsy. Although she was barely tall enough to be at chestal height to me, the woman had 'tude. As we walked from Point A to Point B, she kept scolding me with the words, "lentement, madame, lentement" in a tone that translated to "slow down, dimwit, slow down."

Between that and the notion of monkey fluids? I could barely keep a straight face.

--Marn