In Rare Form . . .

What trip abroad would really be complete without a case of the bends? I had been wondering when I was gonna have a chance to host the all-night-porcelain-disco, but I didn’t have to wait very long; two nights ago I was finally crowned “queen of the commode!”

The culprit: frozen yogurt (well, it was actually spelled ‘yoghurt’) that my father bought for me in an endearing attempt to help me beat the heat. At first I was suspicious (as I have been of ANYTHING not cooked at home), but I didn’t want to be ungrateful . . . and I took the lack of an expiration date on the package to mean that it could never go wrong!

(insert bitter laughter)

No, really I just let it slide because as soon as I held that icy plastic tube in my hands I knew it was too damn cold to pass up; I had been perspiring simply sitting still when my father had presented the pair of deadly dairy delights (that’s right, he got a chance to dance as well, although his was a mere fox-trot in comparison). And I remember thinking to myself that I hadn’t had ANYTHING even HALF as cold this entire trip (the lack of electricity doesn’t allow for consistent refrigeration) . . . . Well, I guess you usually over-pay when you’re desperate, ay?

All was well for about 6 hours and then . . . well, I’ll spare you the details, but I do think there should be a proper name for such a terrifically horrible predicament. In Mexico, they have Montezuma’s Revenge, correct? . . .Well, I’m gonna call this one The Colonialist’s Return, ‘cause my people wouldn’t have been fucking around with no goddamn yogurt in the first place if it weren’t for those pale, pasty crooked-tooth hooligans!

. . .

But it’s all good.

Food’s been staying in my body for the appropriate amount of time for more than 24 hours now.

I can love again.

(smile)