My urine has disappeared.
Of all the conversations I imagined having in relation to my Green Card application, the discussion regarding the location of my bodily fluids wasn’t up there in the top ten.
I’d learnt/learned (according to where you live) the national anthem; I know the names of every American President and the years they served; heck, I’ve even started to learn Spanish, which is the language I hear more than any other. My course, however, is very fond of teaching me how to say “The turtles drink milk”, but that’s the subject for another blog.
So, back to my wee. Now, not all my American friends know that the phrase “taking the piss” is quite common in Britain. Basically, it means “Stop messing with me”, “Don’t try to get one over on me thinking that I don’t know what you’re doing”, “Don’t . . . take the piss!”
But my piss has, quite literally, been taken. I am in the very lengthy process of applying for a Green Card in the category of “alien of exceptional ability”, which brings with it a National Waiver if I am deemed to be of national benefit to the USA. Clearly, my urine is of truly exceptional ability, as it has gone; or, as they say in Spanish . . . okay, I’m not that advanced yet, but Las tortegas beben leche.
When you want to take up permanent residency in the USA, you are required to have a medical – and jabs. I have this week discovered that I don’t have TB but I might be a measles risk. Oh, yes; and let’s not forget the flu. So, I have had a flu jab, an MMR booster, and just needed the pee to make sure I am not carrying any female related sexual infections (fat chance).
But when I turned up today to get my results, the devastating news was that my wee has gone walkabout. The clinic has no idea where it has gone. This means that my lawyer now has to change another set of forms because my last date of entry into the USA will be different from the one that’s currently on record.
Reader, I cried. I sobbed. “But where has it gone?” I blubbed to the very nice doctor who clearly thought I was certifiably insane and should never get within sniffing distance of a Green Card.
The thing is, the sample had been very hard to obtain. I have the tiniest bladder and can normally empty it in a nanosecond, should the occasion require it; but ask me to pee on demand, and everything clenches up (you know who you are, guys . . . but that’s another blog, too). So, I was in the clinic rest room with my little plastic pot, thinking of the Hudson, the Red Sea, running taps, Noah’s Ark, submariner Gordon in Thunderbird 4 . . . and I couldn’t summon up more than a teaspoon of the stuff.
A man in blue, shaking his head, took the pot away and returned with it saying that they didn’t have enough. He could not have looked sadder had I told him he had three minutes to live. He gave me about two pints of water as encouragement and then, just as I was finishing the last drop, he returned to tell me that they had sufficient urine after all.
Happy days – well, apart from having to spend the afternoon in the loo getting rid of all the redundant liquid. But now, horror of horrors, it’s gone, and today, I had to go through the whole process over again.
I’d never realised how hard it is to pee into something with a two-inch diameter. “As much as you can” was the instruction given to me, which of course meant that my bladder went into stubborn mode, refusing to play ball. I also got a bit hung up on where the liquid was coming from. I always thought I knew, but two soaking hands, one wet floor and dripping toilet seat later, I’m not so sure now. I delivered them ten drops, at most.
Where is my wee? I feel a little violated, knowing that it’s out there and not where it should be. Has it been swapped in a lab with that of some poor sap hoping to get out of a DUI (good luck with that, mate; you so picked the wrong person)? Is it sitting lonely in a UPS store, pondering the body it left behind? Has it been abandoned, dropped, ignored? Have las tortegas opted to drop their milk diet in favour of something a little more salty?
I’m just suddenly feeling rather possessive of my little pot; only it and I know what we had to go through to get that far, just to have all our hard work snatched away.
So, whoever you are, closet psycho urine thief, stop taking the piss! Literally.