The sweet Vietnamese woman who just delivered my leftover ostrich curry couldn’t stop oohing and aahing at the pile of makeup she had to sweep aside .
“Not Chinese! European! So good, so gooooooooood!”
She asked if she could touch it and I acquiesced, wide-eyed at how lovingly she stroked the lipstick.
Ew. I just reread that last sentence and it reeks of fetish doggy porn- sorry.
Anyway, I don’t actually believe she was awed over the makeup as much as my really obvious lack of using it. I should not have joked about my flaming cheetah leg spots in that last post, but I didn’t know at the time that they’d gather reinforcements and spread like a swarming red army from my neck to my toes. I didn’t know that they’d align themselves with the chills, headache, and joint pain that left me whimpering through the 16-hour journey to my Halong hotel, and I certainly didn’t know that I’d be googling “Japanese encephalitis” and “dengue fever” less because I wondered which one I had than to find ways to die in relative comfort.
Of course I was overreacting. A good 36 hours of sleep and four liters of water banished everything but the rash. I spent yesterday drinking appropriately named bottled La Vie and flopping across my bed like a trout in the bottom of a rowboat, trying unsuccessfully to pretend I wasn’t scratching.
I watched sub-dubbed Cinemax all day. My greatest accomplishment was learning from a terrible Mark-Paul Gosselaar movie that the Vietnamese phrase for lesbian is “dong ting”.
Today has been much better, which is why I ventured to the restaurant for lunch instead of ordering invalid. I’m still mildly measles-y in appearance, but I can control the scratching and in my humble op, the scratching is the worst for other people.
That’s how I came to order the ostrich. Weird meals are my most doable exotic indoor pleasure, and they’ll have to suffice until I don’t look like a red dwarf actually exploded on me.
Although I suppose I could cover it with my fancy-schmancy makeup.