Home Sweet Home
Is it possible that my apartment is cleaner than I left it? Could Sneetch really be looking svelte? Could my car feel more sturdy? Aah, home. I'm conflicted about being back. On the one hand, I love me some creature-free comforts: I don't have to fear mosquitos, Mexican horse flies, scorpions, or bedbugs here.
On the other hand, I can't help but feel sickly as I contemplate our current political state (overall) and the state of politics right here (in Washington). Sure, it's been a month since Black Tuesday, and you're likely wondering if I'll ever give it a rest, lighten up, etc. I hope for all our sakes that yes, that will occur. But in the meantime I'm still ensconced in my politics and the media class, which is giving me lots of fodder for further disgust. In other words, I'm still feeling crappy about the state of things, and now I have a heap of books giving concrete evidence to my seemingly free-floating despair.
Though maybe not my first choice for beach reading, Robert McChesney's book The Problem of the Media: U.S. Communication Politics in the 21st Century has been enlightening, eye-opening, and surprisingly entertaining. A way-too-smart-for-his-own-good classmate of mine (Phil) said about the book, "I've been reading this like a toilet read. I just open to any page and get sucked in." Kinda gross analogy, and as a female I'm not too clear on this whole "toilet read" thing, but I agree with the overall sentiment. When I'm less jet-lagged and lazy, I'll add a little summary of Mr. McC's arguments.
It's been a few days since I've posted. A quick recap: the house we rented in Tulum town was poop. Or just not what we hoped, really, especially considering the cost. Mosquitos galore, and I was the buffet. After much hemming and hawing and itching we decided to move back to a place on the beach, away from the jungle. We settled upon and into a no-electricity place whose savvy marketing line is, "We cater to romantic love." They also apparently catered to shamans-in-training, as we learned there was a retreat of ladies seeking enlightenment. We dumped our bags and ambled down to the beach to find a bunch of earthy women cavorting naked in the waves.
Later that night, feeling more rustic than romantic, we turned off our head lamps and went to sleep without assembling the oddly confusing mosquito netting. (I never knew a mosquito net could be complicated.) Sometime after midnight some sort of critter perched upon my lip and had a little snack. I started having a peculiar dream about gnawing on my lip, and then woke up, felt my lip swelling, and started to panic. After a few minutes I awakened poor Steve, who looked aghast when I shone the light on my face. We scurried around in the dark a bit trying to figure out what to do.
1. Take an antihistamine. Check.
2. Get dressed in case a doctor visit is necessary. Check.
3. Take a picture to have something to compare swelling/deflation to. Check.
4. Breathe.
5. Go get help. Steve did that. He came back with Lu, the owner of the place, who held her lamp up to my face and said, "Oh. My. God!" I told her that wasn't the right answer, though I felt it too: my lip was growing to the size of some piece of round fruit (we can't decide on what kind. A recent Steve/Kerry conversation: "Honey, how big was my lip, really?" "Uh, kinda like a big grape. With the seed."). I could actually see my lip protruding from my face without major eyeball contortion. Oy veh. Lu quickly recanted the "Oh. My. God," and launched into a really amazing, calming conversation. She talked us both out of panic, and explained that I had likely been bit by a horse fly, and would be fully recovered by morning. Who knew? She held my hand for quite some time, and was the perfect balance of funny and motherly. Thank god (or shaman or whomever) for Lu. We both hardly slept that night, but were in a far better place thanks to her calm.
By morning my lip was merely lopsided, not blown-up, and I was finally able to see what I'd look like with Jolie lips. By 4pm I was back to being a thin-lipped Murphy, slathered in bug spray.
On the other hand, I can't help but feel sickly as I contemplate our current political state (overall) and the state of politics right here (in Washington). Sure, it's been a month since Black Tuesday, and you're likely wondering if I'll ever give it a rest, lighten up, etc. I hope for all our sakes that yes, that will occur. But in the meantime I'm still ensconced in my politics and the media class, which is giving me lots of fodder for further disgust. In other words, I'm still feeling crappy about the state of things, and now I have a heap of books giving concrete evidence to my seemingly free-floating despair.
Though maybe not my first choice for beach reading, Robert McChesney's book The Problem of the Media: U.S. Communication Politics in the 21st Century has been enlightening, eye-opening, and surprisingly entertaining. A way-too-smart-for-his-own-good classmate of mine (Phil) said about the book, "I've been reading this like a toilet read. I just open to any page and get sucked in." Kinda gross analogy, and as a female I'm not too clear on this whole "toilet read" thing, but I agree with the overall sentiment. When I'm less jet-lagged and lazy, I'll add a little summary of Mr. McC's arguments.
It's been a few days since I've posted. A quick recap: the house we rented in Tulum town was poop. Or just not what we hoped, really, especially considering the cost. Mosquitos galore, and I was the buffet. After much hemming and hawing and itching we decided to move back to a place on the beach, away from the jungle. We settled upon and into a no-electricity place whose savvy marketing line is, "We cater to romantic love." They also apparently catered to shamans-in-training, as we learned there was a retreat of ladies seeking enlightenment. We dumped our bags and ambled down to the beach to find a bunch of earthy women cavorting naked in the waves.
Later that night, feeling more rustic than romantic, we turned off our head lamps and went to sleep without assembling the oddly confusing mosquito netting. (I never knew a mosquito net could be complicated.) Sometime after midnight some sort of critter perched upon my lip and had a little snack. I started having a peculiar dream about gnawing on my lip, and then woke up, felt my lip swelling, and started to panic. After a few minutes I awakened poor Steve, who looked aghast when I shone the light on my face. We scurried around in the dark a bit trying to figure out what to do.
1. Take an antihistamine. Check.
2. Get dressed in case a doctor visit is necessary. Check.
3. Take a picture to have something to compare swelling/deflation to. Check.
4. Breathe.
5. Go get help. Steve did that. He came back with Lu, the owner of the place, who held her lamp up to my face and said, "Oh. My. God!" I told her that wasn't the right answer, though I felt it too: my lip was growing to the size of some piece of round fruit (we can't decide on what kind. A recent Steve/Kerry conversation: "Honey, how big was my lip, really?" "Uh, kinda like a big grape. With the seed."). I could actually see my lip protruding from my face without major eyeball contortion. Oy veh. Lu quickly recanted the "Oh. My. God," and launched into a really amazing, calming conversation. She talked us both out of panic, and explained that I had likely been bit by a horse fly, and would be fully recovered by morning. Who knew? She held my hand for quite some time, and was the perfect balance of funny and motherly. Thank god (or shaman or whomever) for Lu. We both hardly slept that night, but were in a far better place thanks to her calm.
By morning my lip was merely lopsided, not blown-up, and I was finally able to see what I'd look like with Jolie lips. By 4pm I was back to being a thin-lipped Murphy, slathered in bug spray.
posted by O'Mc Bloggivan at 11:32 PM
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