����"You remember how to give a urine sample, right?" my doctor asked. These were NOT the words I wanted to hear. Seeing my stunned expression (or should I say even more stunned than usual expression) he added, "You take this to the bathroon, urinate for a few seconds, and then catch some of your remaining urine in it."

����With that, he handed me a teensy tiny plastic container with a screw on lid. He did this with a straight face, as if he actually believed there was a chance I could hit this container without covering it and my hands with golden goodness.

����I accepted it with a straight face, knowing full well that if you tell me to urinate into anything smaller than a toilet bowl There Will Be Problems. Between us, we turned in a performance worthy of AT LEAST a Golden Globe, and it's probably not premature to be talking Oscar here.

����(Yes, yes lucky reader, you've hit Fun With Urine Day. Confetti is probably overkill, but if you want to hold your hands at chest height and clap with joy, well, I understand completely, eh.)

����As you can imagine, I was pretty disgruntled when I marched off to the clinic bathroom this morning to produce said sample. (As an aside, have you ever wondered why we don't use the word "gruntled" to express the opposite of disgruntled? Wouldn't it be fun, when you meet someone on the street and they ask you how you are, if you could reply, "Why, I'm gruntled. And you?")

����Tangent much?

����Me?

����So yes There Were Problems and yes, as predicted I managed to coat my hand and the container with Bodily Fluids I Really Would Prefer Not To Touch.

����Fine.

����So I'm standing there at the bathroom sink and now I have to ask myself what the etiquette here is. I've already moistened the outside of the container and it's label, so I figure The Damage Has Been Done. I screwed on the lid, and then held the container for a few moments under the tap to rinse off the Bodily Fluids I Really Would Prefer Not To Touch.

����The label was now officially soaking wet and pretty much useless for inscribing information on.

����Fine.

����Then I gave my hands a vigourous scrub. I went to pick up the container and realized that the fingers which had been holding the lid while I rinsed said container had been coated with Bodily Fluids I Really Would Prefer Not To Touch. So then I figured I'd better rinse THAT end of the container before I handed it to my long suffering doctor ... and the label began to peel off.

����Fine.

����Back down the hall clutching my container. Thanks to my friend Eddie The Nutrition Nazi, I take a horse sized multi-vitamin that turns my urine to a fluorescent yellow Not Seen In Nature. My doctor took the sodden gift from me without flinching, but I could tell he was wondering if it was radioactive or something.

����"Vitamins," I said, tersely. He visibly relaxed.

����Given my other symptoms, the cloudiness of my urine, and a subsequent test my doctor ran on some of the Bodily Fluids I Really Would Prefer Not To Touch, it turns out I have a bladder infection.

����He wrote me a prescription and told me if it wasn't better by Wednesday, I was to call him because a fair number of bladder infections now come from antibiotic resistant strains of bacteria. Oh poop. He would send my urine out for more detailed testing, as a precaution.

����I almost fainted when the pharmacist took my prescription and handed me back a tiny container with SIX FREAKING PILLS and a bill for almost $10. Oh, and It Gets Better.

����Not only was I charged an exhorbitant amount for pills which might not cure my infection, as an added bonus, these pills come with these possible side effects:

1) they may cause diarrhea
2) they may cause nausea or, in rare cases, vomiting
3) they may cause headaches
4) they may make my skin more sensitive to the sun or sun lamps, so I'm to avoid exposure and use a sunscreen.

����Fine.

����I'm paying alot of money for pills that might not cure my bladder infection and which MIGHT make me sick.

����Fine.

����Oh, and in other health related news (and feel free to clasp your hands and murmur, "Be still, my foolish heart" because, really, what COULD be more exciting than a middle-aged woman droning on about her boo boos?) I got an all clear on the third mammogram, the one I had just before Christmas.

����You can well imagine my relief, eh.

����I mean, had they decided this mammogram was hinky then the next step would have been a biopsy and frankly, when you're as chestally challenged as I am, you don't want to be giving away any tissue at all from what is already teetering towards the wonderful world of training bras.

����Training bras. Can you see me, a 50-year-old woman, explaining to a saleswoman why I'm in the lingerie section usually reserved for pre-teens?

����"Well, you see, the boobs were getting a little unruly and I figured putting them back in training might help."

����Think anyone would buy that one?