Don't get uptight. Just because you get your drugs from a "doctor" who's been to "medical school" doesn't mean you get to judge me. I am totally qualified to self-diagnose and prescribe. I know how to use the internet and my cousin Amy is a nursing student. Don't forget I did spend almost one year as assistant editor of the publication Essential Psychopharmacology . Yeah. Eat it, physicians.

Why shouldn't we be able to buy our own medication without the interference of doctors? Last week for example, I had a sinus infection. I know this because I have had 44,000 sinus infections in my life and I know the symptoms. Malcolm went to the farmacia and bought a box of antibiotics for like $116 pesos; I administered the meds according to the directions and now am completely well.

Inspired by my own expertise I am now applying my skills to the management of my mental health and keeping my uterus fetus free. I am monitoring my overall health/sense of well being. I do thorough research and understand the risks. I'm a reasonably intelligent grown up. Anyway, it's not like you can get anything really recreational without a prescription. You know your body. Damn the man. Information is power. etc.

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Posted by Jillian at 04:54 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Quite a bit has changed since last we spoke. I've been to America, gotten married, moved into a house on the ocean, skirted natural disaster and learned to like a lame dog. Man, I'm different. I'm surprised but there it is. It has been exhilarating and terrifying and not entirely painless.

Don't worry because a lot hasn't changed. I'm stick kick ass, I still love Malcolm and I still think living in Mexico is hilarious. So, sorry if I absented myself for an extended period, I just needed to work out a few things. I'd say we can pick up where we left off but that may not be possible. I'm bona fide, after all.

We'll just take it from here. poco a poco...

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Posted by Jillian at 03:18 PM | Permalink | Comments (8)

Welp, we made it through. Hurricane Dean turned out to be The Hurricane That Wasn't, at least here in the northern end of the Yucatan. We boarded up the house and evacuated to the warm comfort of the Fiesta Americana late yesterday afternoon to drink vodka and wait the whole thing out. Of course, due to the State of Emergency that had been declared, liquor was not being sold anywhere, so my dreams of sitting at the bar with my compatriots, eating peanuts and watching the wind blow chunks of roof around, turned into my drinking smuggled vodka, emptying the minibar, and watching Mindfreak reruns.

The weirdest thing? Watching CNN footage on the hotel satellite, of reporters dispatched to Cancun and Chetumal, and thinking about how this "foreign" footage was, actually, just our home...or at the very least, a town we had visited.

All in all, it turned into a bit of a non-event for our area. Though Dean strengthened to a Category 5 monster before making landfall near Chetumal, it had steered South just enough to spare us any major damage. We returned home today to find that, though even our doormat was still in our yard, we had no electricity. A transformer exploded right outside our house and was laying in the street, broken wires still attached. It's hard to know if CFE knows about it, or how long it will take to fix, but all told, we are happy that there was no damage to the house or our fragile selves. Thanks to all that offered their best wishes, prayers, and good old-fashioned friendliness.

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Posted by Malcolm at 09:08 PM | Permalink | Comments (15)

Just a quick update, because hurricane Dean is bearing down on us, and looks to be a cat 5 by the time it hits us here in the Yucatan. We are frantically boarding things up, and then are headed for higher ground tomorrow, inland in Merida. I will post an update (and hopefully some photos) tomorrow afternoon, but until then, wish us good luck, and we will post as often as we can.

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Posted by Malcolm at 04:11 PM | Permalink | Comments (19)

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Posted by Malcolm at 02:11 PM | Permalink | Comments (15)

So after living with my parents for two weeks (as already mentioned, Jillian is a stickler for things like, "hot water," and, "a bed"), we are finally starting to settle into our house in Chelem. Okay, granted, we have still been commuting out to Telchac for internet and work, but in a way, even the commute is nice. It's great to feel like your day is actually beginning and ending, like there is a seperation between "work time" and "off time."

We are getting the house together, unpacking things, trying to figure out some storage solutions in a land without an Ikea, but we have a somewhat disturbing guest: a medium-sized white dalmatian with no spots, and a leg that, at some point, was broken and has healed without attention. This makes the dog hop along on her good back foot, while holding the gimped one up in the air. Amazingly, she gets along pretty well, running full speed through the length of our yard and even managing to jump up and put her front paws on my waist, where she looks at me with total adoration.

It is entirely unsettling, but what can we do? This dog has been living in our yard for the last three weeks (she has been there on every trip we made back while staying with my parents), and is clearly not leaving. She moved into our house before we did, and she barks at intruders and defends her (our) territory. She's got a big heart and a lot of courage, and I am pretty sure I may be the first person in her life to ever be nice to her. We certainly didn't want a dog, let alone one that is such a mess, but she's not leaving, and neither are we.

We may take her to the vet, to see if they can re-break and set her leg, or (my preference) amputate it altogether and fit her with a wooden replacement, because nothing is cooler than living in Mexico with a mangey three legged Yard Dog who responds only to Spanish commands. We'll keep you posted.

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Posted by Malcolm at 02:04 PM | Permalink | Comments (6)

Boston's Pizza restaurant, in Merida's North End, continues to be a popular restaurant for our fellow extranjeros, due, no doubt, to our moderately glowing review on these very pages. Please consider this post an addendum to that review, the gist of which you have likely already gotten from the title of this post.

For the uninitiated, Boston's "Gourmet Pizza" is located next to Gran Plaza, making it a perfect ending to a day of consumerism, or, in our case, fruitless futon-shopping. Its darkened booths, cheap beer, and promises of "Pasta Tuesday" make it the perfect place for when you don't want a GREAT meal, but would maybe like to get re-acquainted with ricotta cheese. On Wednesday night, it was perfect for us. Jillian had an individual pizza, and I had a French dip, something I had been craving for months.

Three o'clock in the morning rolled around, and I had some of the worst stomach trouble I have yet experienced here in Mexico. This was followed by 12 trips to the bathroom (I counted), plus two more for throwing up, all before sunrise. I spent all day yesterday in a delerium, fading in and out of sleep, unable to hold down even water, until about 4:00 o'clock yesterday afternoon. I am only now holding down liquids, and am utterly dehydrated, shaky, and cold-sweaty.

As I writhed around that night, one of the things that made what WAS coming out of my backside, start coming out my front, was the realization of just how horrifying the meal I selected was. A green salad, which may have been the culprit but which I for some reason don't blame, and a roast beef sandwich of bizarre texture, color, and flavor, accompanied by a bowl of room temperature beef broth. It seemed fine at the time...my body told me otherwise late that night.

So what is the point of this post? Just that, I got sicker than I ever have been in my life, let alone since I have lived here in Mexico, not from my usual diet of street food, ice cubes, cocinas economicas, or Tacos of Questionable Origin. No, I got terribly ill eating from a chain restaurant, serving so-called "American" food, in an establishment striving for "modern" standards. The amount of quotes I just used should indicate the tone of my voice. That says to me, that travelers here should ignore travel warnings. As I have said before, eat what's being passed out of the back of a truck. Drink in the Jamaica punch served to you in a jam jar filled with grainy crushed ice. Take the ham off your Fiesta Taco and eat it with relish. Crunch through a marquesita that was cooked on the back of an old piece of galvanized roofing. Whatever you do, just don't eat a roast beef sandwich from a chain restaurant.

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Posted by Malcolm at 05:22 PM | Permalink | Comments (7)