COLUMN: Trickle-down effect

From Jorie Green's "Sauce on the Side," Fall '96 From Jorie Green's "Sauce on the Side," Fall '96A drug test for a government job shouldn'tFrom Jorie Green's "Sauce on the Side," Fall '96A drug test for a government job shouldn'tbe a big deal-unless Big Sister's watching. From Jorie Green's "Sauce on the Side," Fall '96A drug test for a government job shouldn'tbe a big deal-unless Big Sister's watching.I don't get embarrassed easily, mainly because I am insensitive enough to be amused by things that would make the average person blush, squirm and hop on the next plane to Canada. So why should I be made to feel uncomfortable by the fact that an entire touring group of prospective Campus Apartments tenants overheard my most passionate rendition of Alanis Morrissette's "You Oughta Know" when I thought I was alone in my suite? In fact, this little oopsy-daisy brought me closer to my dream of emulating boob-tube extraordinaires such as Family Matters' Erkel and Saved By the Bell's Screech and that really dumb girl on... oh, what is the name of that show? Well, I'm sure you know which one I'm talking about. My immunity to humiliation has given me a sort of tough girl reputation on campus, if you can believe it -- and you probably can't. Well, OK, maybe not tough girl. Maybe rough girl? Okay, oblivious girl. I guess that works. People really started to get impressed after that infamous episode of the Summer of '95, which I think may have made the local news. On the morning of this memorable incident, I had decided to put on a pretty new sundress that seemed perfectly innocent in the shop, but turned out to be about as transparent as a contact lens. (I guess that's what you get for shopping at a store called The Pleasure Chest). As I walked to work, I had no idea why cars kept crashing into each other, or why this guy handing out free samples of cereal chased me six blocks just to give me a box of Oatmeal Raisin Crunch. (I'd told him several times that I was a jam-and-toast kind of gal, but he just didn't get it.) It was not until I came into the office and my boss offered me a raise that I began to get suspicious (considering that I was an unpaid intern), so I asked a friendly co-worker if anything was wrong. "Nice Wonderbra," she replied. When I tell friends about this little fabric faux pas, they are always amazed by my nonchalance. "You didn't blush? You didn't cringe? You didn't hop on the next plane to Canada?" No, I tell them, it takes a lot more than unintended nudity to drive me out of this wonderful land of spacious skies and amber waves of grain. It wasn't until a sweet-faced old lady in a lab coat asked if she could watch me pee into a cup that I began to crave such un-American things as free health care and Quebe_ois. "You want me to do what?" I asked, so loudly that all of the other prospective government employees in the waiting room looked up at me and stared. A kindly postal-worker-to-be explained that it was the woman's job to witness her patients engaging in the most "unmentionable acts." Unmentionable? I glanced around to make sure I hadn't gone to the wrong clinic. But there were no signs for "Sexual Deviants Anonymous." The postal worker-to-be said that was, as I'd suspected, located on the second floor above a South Street leather goods store. Oh, I was in the right place, all right, the Industrial Testing Center. I was waiting to take a drug test so that I could begin an I-need-cash-for-graduate-school stint in a federal agency. I knew that I would be expected to do my business on command, but I did not anticipate this grandmotherly type watching the transaction. "Government procedure," she snarled, as she followed me into the stall, adjusted her glasses and commanded me to "Drop 'em." After a few shots of a tranquilizing gun, the nurse was finally able to induce me to let go of my modesty -- and my drawers. (My goodness, this is starting to sound like someone's post-frat party confession!) But then I experienced what a certain population of the males in our species like to label "performance anxiety." And I was outraged. Me, Jorie "Grain-of-Sand-Sized-Bladder" Green, unable to pee. The very idea defied the laws of nature. Wasn't I the one who, in fourth grade, had to ask the school bus driver to pull over to the side of the road because I couldn't wait another five minutes until we got to my house? Do I not keep a computer data base of the exact location of the ladies' room at every fine restaurant and department store in town? Have I not from time to time gleefully resorted to port-a-potties, buckets in the trunk and the women's bathroom at the Market Street train station, rather than deal with that oh-so-painful wait for relief? I looked at the nurse, who much like the Oatmeal Raisin Crunch boy last summer, had her eyes transfixed on a most personal part of my body. "What are you waiting for?" she barked. "About 12 Diet Cokes." Well, it turned out that the last prospective government employee had used up the Newmann Medical Center's supply of Diet Coke, but I was able to make do with about a gallon of orange drink from the hospital cafeteria and a therapy session with the resident shrink, Dr. Leek, who was able to bring me back to my pre-potty-training days through some skillful hypnosis. And now, as I write this column from the lovely city of Toronto, I can only offer others who may want to work for Uncle Sam two words of advice: practice beforehand. Oh -- and make sure that before you leave the clinic, Dr. Leek brings you back to your post-potty-training days. If you want a real test for your threshold of embarrassment, trying standing in a long line at the campus CVS with a box of Depends in your hand.