This is the only country I’ve ever been in where men will drop babies and old women and test tubes of volatile, nuclear substances to run and help me put my grocery bags in the back of the car.

Sitting by the little (very cold!) pool at the house.

And they’re not even store employees or anything.

Just helpful dudes who think I look weak or needy or blonde.

Whateves.

I’ll take it.

It makes me feel kind of like Grace Kelly or something.

In other news, I may resemble a dainty starlet of the 1950s (at least south of border. Give me that.), but I stink like a caveman.

Did you know charcoal does not necessarily come in pre-formed, palm-sized briquettes? But that it can actually be half of a tree trunk and fourteen tiny scraps creating the substantial weight in that large, dirty bag? And when that sh*t gets under your nails, it’s like the anti-French manicure.

It’s the Brittany Grease Monkey.

The Parisian Welder.

The Provencal Blacksmith.

The I’ve Been Working on the French Railroad All The Live-Long Day

Driving to the Hermanos Gonzales Super Taco only to discover they're closed on Sundays. Boo hoo.

But there’s no time to dwell on that dainty, girly, To Catch a Thief crap now. Somehow you have to get a fire going and get the tree trunk itself going and eventually – say fourteen hours later – you’re ready to grill your chicken.

I know, it’s a lot of work.

And a lot of time.

I did not know that either.

All of this was what we Grace Kelly-types like to call “quel surprise”.

But now that I smell all camp fire-y and manly and “Me. Fire. Cook. Meat.” I’m also a bit proud of my new knowledge. Like anything hard-won, it feels like a victory. And smells like one too.

Or is that Napalm?
Or is that redundant?

In other news, I have been unwell.

Not so unwell as to render a visit to a Mexican clinic or a life flight out of here, but unwell enough to disturb my precious and deeply beloved sleep.

And that ain’t right.

I think they served yogurt like this at Auschwitz. Pineapple, celery, and cactus. And the other one is prune. Yummy.

As I’m pretty sure you all know by now, I have a minor condition called Interstitial Cystitis.
Admittedly, being a pain condition, in some cases it is anything but ‘minor’, but luckily my version is relatively minor.

Until it flares up, and then I’m always like, “How the hell did I not remember how horrible this was!?!? Get me a morphine drip and get it NOW!!!”

My IC has a few known foes: spicy peppers, excess red wine, and stress.

Checking off the latter two, the issue a couple nights ago was brought on by some excessively hot pico de gallo made with serranos heaped upon some already  spicy pulpo tacos.
Damn, they were good though.

Not quite good enough to account for my suffering, but still good.

And in the spirit of full disclosure and entertainment at any cost, step right up and gawk at the true and very pathetic story of how desperate I was the other night (FAIR WARNING: This is not for the squeamish or vomit story sensitive): Upon waking up in the wee hours and realizing my bladder was on goddamned FIRE, I mixed up and drank a huge glass of baking soda and water in order to alkalize the situation. You’ve heard of baking soda on a grease fire? For better or worse, it’s the same thing with my super sensitive ulcer-esque urine tank.

A pretty horsey spotted near Bahia Coyote.

For those of you that are visual and/or literal: It was at least 16 oz of water and a three honking tablespoons of baking soda.

And murder going down.

Out of sheer horror, I chased that with a plain – swimming pool sized – glass of water.

Then I went and laid down.

And pulled the blankets up around me.

And thought happy, alkaline thoughts.

And felt overwhelmingly like barfing.

So after a while, the barfiness gained strength and I got up and sat in the tub (thank god for the tub!!!)

There, I threw up projectile baking soda water vomit four different times into said bath (Big time Exorcist projectile vomit, yet pretty clean vomit, as things go).

And worst of all, I had to fight to keep the remainder of the hideous, nauseating beverage down because I knew I needed it to deal with problem #1, the original problem that in turn led to the new nausea problem, my angry bladder.

Eventually I went back to bed.

Many have tried, but few have mastered the in-pool-novel-writing technique. It's a matter of opportunity as much as skill and determination.

And I’m better today.

And taking it easy on the serranos.

And no red wine in sight.

Sorry about the gross story.
But you asked.

What?
You didn’t ask?
Oh apologies. It must be all this hanging out by myself in the Mexican desert making me imagine conversations with you that aren’t actually happening.

On the upside, I will be in a middle seat on USAirways Flight 330 to Phoenix in less than 48 hours. I will miss the sun and the cacti and the tranquillity, but I seriously cannot wait to go home and hug my dog and watch some cable TV.

Ah, those crazy kids. What will they think of next?

Apparently the unstable portion of the population that isn’t shooting up schools and Christmas parties or quietly beating their head against the padded wall have taken an foreboding interest in science:

Amateurs are trying genetic engineering at home

SAN FRANCISCO – The Apple computer was invented in a garage. Same with the Google search engine. Now, tinkerers are working at home with the basic building blocks of life itself.

Using homemade lab equipment and the wealth of scientific knowledge available online, these hobbyists are trying to create new life forms through genetic engineering — a field long dominated by Ph.D.s toiling in university and corporate laboratories.

In her San Francisco dining room lab, for example, 31-year-old computer programmer Meredith L. Patterson is trying to develop genetically altered yogurt bacteria that will glow green to signal the presence of melamine, the chemical that turned Chinese-made baby formula and pet food deadly.

“People can really work on projects for the good of humanity while learning about something they want to learn about in the process,” she said.

So far, no major gene-splicing discoveries have come out anybody’s kitchen or garage.

But critics of the movement worry that these amateurs could one day unleash an environmental or medical disaster. Defenders say the future Bill Gates of biotech could be developing a cure for cancer in the garage.

Many of these amateurs may have studied biology in college but have no advanced degrees and are not earning a living in the biotechnology field. Some proudly call themselves “biohackers” — innovators who push technological boundaries and put the spread of knowledge before profits.

In Cambridge, Mass., a group called DIYbio is setting up a community lab where the public could use chemicals and lab equipment, including a used freezer, scored for free off Craigslist, that drops to 80 degrees below zero, the temperature needed to keep many kinds of bacteria alive.

Co-founder Mackenzie Cowell, a 24-year-old who majored in biology in college, said amateurs will probably pursue serious work such as new vaccines and super-efficient biofuels, but they might also try, for example, to use squid genes to create tattoos that glow.

Cowell said such unfettered creativity could produce important discoveries.

“We should try to make science more sexy and more fun and more like a game,” he said.

Patterson, the computer programmer, wants to insert the gene for fluorescence into yogurt bacteria, applying techniques developed in the 1970s.

She learned about genetic engineering by reading scientific papers and getting tips from online forums. She ordered jellyfish DNA for a green fluorescent protein from a biological supply company for less than $100. And she built her own lab equipment, including a gel electrophoresis chamber, or DNA analyzer, which she constructed for less than $25, versus more than $200 for a low-end off-the-shelf model.

Jim Thomas of ETC Group, a biotechnology watchdog organization, warned that synthetic organisms in the hands of amateurs could escape and cause outbreaks of incurable diseases or unpredictable environmental damage.

“Once you move to people working in their garage or other informal location, there’s no safety process in place,” he said.

Some also fear that terrorists might attempt do-it-yourself genetic engineering. But Patterson said: “A terrorist doesn’t need to go to the DIYbio community. They can just enroll in their local community college.”

Okay, people. Let’s review the facts here.

Conducting genetic engineering in your basement never ends well.  Science is neither sexy nor fun nor a game. Sure, it’s exciting when the green phosphorescent protein arrives in the mail and you have visions of winning a Nobel Prize. But I implore you, put down the test tube and reflect on what history has taught us:

1. The Island of Dr. Moreau – Didn’t you see this? Admittedly, it’s borderline unbearable…but it also serves as a nice, firm warning against messing with Mother Nature.
2. I Am Legend – A much better movie than the above, but a good reminder that viruses are not playthings.
3. Spider Man – where did the radioactive spider come from? That’s right. Some jerk was probably cooked it up in a basement somewhere.
4. Austin Powers II: The Spy Who Shagged Me – Need I remind you that Mini Me is a botched attempt to clone Dr. Evil? Probably done in Frau Farbissina’s backyard shed.
5. Silence of the Lambs - A serial killer raises moths in his basement so that he can stuff the cocoons down his victims’ throats. Admittedly, this wasn’t genetic engineering, but I think it proposes an alarming chicken and the egg dilemma. Did he start raising the moths because he decided to serial kill and figured this would be a super gross little extra OR was he raising moths and realized he needed to start killing because he had too many cocoons lying around and needed a clever way to get rid of some of them? It’s a slippery slope… (and yes, I realize this is the second time in two days I’ve mentioned Silence of the Lambs.)
6. Jurassic Park I, II, and III – I rest my case.

Look, if this cinematic morality play isn’t enough to convince you, let me give it to you straight: I have no desire to try the new vaccine you whipped up in your coat closet, and I will not be eating any phosporescent yogurt. I can read the expiration date just as well as the next guy. I am a tiny bit interested in the tattoos that glow in the dark, but not enough to spend the last years of my life fighting off undead, flesh eating Dark Seekers. Please, I beg of you: Take that money and invest it in something useful. Like a Bedazzler.