Pee in My Eye.


This is the first time i realize that the word “embarassed” sounds a lot like


It is October 4th, 2011.
My family promised that if i worked hard, earned a college education, and dedicated myself to a career that i would reap the benefits of a comfortable lifestyle-poised and ready to be married, start a family,etc.
(as it turns out: i got a degree, chose to quit my corporate job, taught myself to surf, and became addicted to crossing things off of my life’s to-do list)

and Here i am:(like a Madonna performance)
legs bent, thighs parallel to the beige tile floor, my butt resembles dual camel humps horizontally displayed in a tensed, yet aloof, fashion (i am bare assed and accidentally flexing). Nothing about my stance whispers “Higher Education”. Plus, there are 7 mosquitoes dive bombing my bits. i can hear their tiny limbs high-fiving one another every time they succeed.

i am too fatigued to express anger so i resign myself to being a little bit sad about the whole thing instead.
😦 <—-if my face was a text this is what it would look like.

i need to keep my balance as i hover over the
“toilet should be right here-why the hell isn’t the toilet right here?” ceramic hole (in the ground).

i will die if any skin of mine rubs against another person’s fecals or piss (there is enough urine on the floor to test for herpes, pregnancy, and the use of illegal narcotics- but that’s not something to brag about, or is it?).
There are no handles. There is nothing to lean up against. i am still piggy-backing my multi-colored backpack because there is no hook on the back of the stall door to hang it up.

My toes are erect pointing up towards my head, stretching their backs straight, like little obedient soldiers.
I am the letter ‘C’.
If the need to urinate is a symphony then mine would be Victory at Sea by Richard Rodgers.
Despite the inconsolable urgency- there is not enough bravery in me to relieve the bladder-yet.
“Oh, God, oh jesus…please , puleeeez don’t let me pee on my sneakers and Hugo Boss jeans. Please don’t let me pee on my sneakers and Hugo Boss Jeans. i don’t want to smell, i don’t want to smell…”

My life up until right now – in list form is as follows:
22 hours on a plane = 4 bottles of water, 3 hot teas, 2 tomato juice cans, 2 Cran-Applecans, 1 Orange juice can.
(Later when i tell this story my friend says
” What are you a camel?”
“No, I’m a Mexican and everything was ‘free’.”

Okay. It is game time. i am going to do this.
i know my aim is a bit off (afterall, the effects of flying include loss of equilibrium)

but here i go.

“hi, excuse me.”
The Chinese lady does not turn around.

“Oh kay….excuse me. Do you speak English?”

She didn’t.
So i went up to another presumed airline official.

“Hi, sir, do you speak English?”

My bladder is beginning to make noise. The pressure in my nasal cavities is sliding into my eyebrows like Bob Dylan lips across a harmonica. He doesn’t say anything but he answers my question non-verbally with a confident head nod that
expresses the Chinese version of
“Yeah, homie, no doubt.”

Sweet. One less hurdle.

“Where is there a working restroom, please?”

The man signals in the direction i had just come from.

“No, that restroom isn’t working, sir.”

He nods his head and tells me something i don’t understand.
My ears feel like they have chubby moths tucked inside of them pillows,blankets and all, ready for bed time. i try again.

“No, it really isn’t working. i opened all of the stalls and the toilets are missing, sir.”

He is chewing what looks like to be a cross between orange slices and cellulite. His eyes are still seated in front of mine with a bored expression. The collection of teeth in his mouth rivals his genitals, in number, winning by one count.

“Lao Wei ! You aw AmerrRican?”
“Yes, i am.”
“China toilet like this.”

In my head i replay the part where i open the tiny bathroom door to expose the, what i thought was, bathroom under construction. This time i see more details-why is the hole made of a fine, wishingly pristine material if it is to be covered by a commode? The flushing mechanism is in tact, too. This can only mean…

“Nuh uh.You pee into the ground?”
i don’t realize that i am doing it but my legs are bending towards the floor, bouncing my body, as i simulate a stream of urine, between my legs, as my hand motions look like i’m playing imaginary frisbee perpendicular to the ground (smooth flick of the wrist ending in what could be described as “jazz hand”).

The airline official’s eyes finally glitter with interest.

<—- i’m assuming this means “yup” He continues…in the only happy Chinese tone i have heard:

“You now pee into grrround.”

and so.
i would.


RICOCHET-the motion of an object or a projectile in rebounding or deflecting one or more
times from the surface over which it is passing or against which it hits a glancing blow.

Pee, after being contained in the human body for multiple hours, has ammonia and nitrogen in it. For the record, this does burn when it is sprayed directly into your retina-particularly when it hits right in the upwards pocket of the eyelid.
Crystal Segura once posted on my FaceBook page that i need to lean my pelvis forward to avoid splashing my feet. Important to note, Crystal, leaning too far forward results in peeing in your own eyeball. Sometimes both.
I’m sure there is a Chinese proverb about this.

The first time this happens – i reach for a slice of toilet paper to wipe my face off immediately, right?

Oh. Yeah. There is no such dispenser.
CHINA is BYOP (bring your own paper)

In China, 99% of the time, you are expected to carry your own “wiping implements”.
(i put that in quotes to make it sound official but really that’s what i call ‘toilet paper’).



3 thoughts on “Pee in My Eye.

  1. There is an art to the squat toilets…and if you find out what that *art* is, please let me know, because I still haven’t figured it out.

    That said, a lot of Chinese find the squat toilets more “sanitary” than the regular kind.

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