I had always bragged about never having to get up in the middle of the night to take a piss.
From... as early as I can remember, I was never the kid who had to get up in the middle of the night to take a leak. I wasn't one to wet the bed, either.
I seriously thought I was a freak, because everyone else I'd talk to did either (or both... on a good day) of the two.
At one point, I even suspected I peed the bed at night, slept through it, and by the time I'd wake up, I'd be dry... my paranoia got to that level (although my mind always told me that was nearly impossible, because I still remember the last time I wet the bed. I was still sleeping in the crib, I woke up wet, and I curled up in the corner feeling disgusted... then fear took over, thinking that my mom was going to beat my ass. I think I've already told this story, but I always tell it, because it's so ingrained in me. I was under 2.5 years old, because D wasn't born yet. I still remember I was wearing red clothes... imagine how terrified I must have been to remember something like that).
Anyway, after I made sure I wasn't pissing myself in my sleep, and I convinced myself I just had a really good bladder, I would tell anyone who'd listen.
Ok, no I wouldn't, but I would do a little happy dance when I wasn't always in a rush to hit the bathroom. I'd also usually be the one who'd get the best night sleep, because I'd sleep like a rock for eight hours straight.
Well... I'm saddened to say that for the last three months, I have joined the ranks of the poor souls who must wake up in the middle of the night to osmoregulate.
I only mention this because today, as I was relieving myself at seven in the morning, still wishing to go to bed after taking the piss, I was startled awake by a sound.
I had just rolled out of bed, kept my eyes half shut, felt my way to the bathroom which is about four steps away, sat down and did my thing as I fought the sleep monster.
Then there was the sound of metal hitting porcelain.
What the fuck? ...No. Please no.
My eyes shot open.
I reached for my earlobes.
N-OHHHHHHHHH!
One of my stupid right earrings had fallen off (I'm one of those Mexican girls who always rocks two gold, medium-sized earrings in each ear... having two on one ear and one on the other is unacceptable).
I felt around, but couldn't find the earring.
I held on to the hope that maybe... no, DEFINITELY the earring had slid to the floor.
But once I stood up, I heard the horrifying sound of my earring plunking into liquid.
I looked down, quite disappointed in myself for not fixing that goddamn flimsy latch on the stupid hoop earring (in the past, I've woken up plenty of times with that same damn earring stuck in my hair, or resting on my pillow-- it'll just no longer be IN my earlobe. I'm sure it happens because the earring is old AND I sleep like a wild animal whose foot is stuck in a hunter's trap).
I had eaten asparagus the previous night... so... I wasn't too eager to rescue my lost treasure.
Then again, these are tough economic times... I can definitely sell the stupid hoop for some dough if I no longer want to wear it... it's 14k gold.
So... I very dejectedly walked to the kitchen and grabbed a bamboo skewer.
I fished my earring out of the bowl, trashed the skewer, then treated the earring as if it were radioactive (as far as I'm concerned, asparagine-laden piss IS radioactive).
I asked Mom for advice on how to clean the earring... and she told me to quit being a pussy and just wash it down with some soap and scrub it with the Brillo pad... it'll be good as new.
Fuck that. That shit isn't going in my ear after all that.
So uh... I went for the easier route and just soaked it in alcohol then left it on a paper towel to dry...
Sure, I could just buy some other earring, but THESE ARE TOUGH ECONOMIC TIMES! I don't want to buy gold.
Plus... I'm sentimentally attached to the fucking things after having worn them for well over ten years.
Fucking toilet bowls and early-bird pisses...
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