Ebola and the Zombie Apocalypse

If you haven’t heard about the Ebola outbreak you must be living under a rock.  Apparently it is the largest outbreak in like forever.  Thousands of people have died and if you catch it you have a ninety present chance of bleeding to death from all your orifices.  Being OCD and a germaphobe these odds scare the shit out of me.  Firstly, because I don’t want to be infected with some strange ass disease; and secondly, bleeding from all my orifices seems rather messy and unhygienic.

More concerning besides all these terrible things that Ebola is causing is the bogus reports that people who have died from Ebola are coming back as Zombies.  You may be thinking “What. The. Fuck.”  And you are justified in thinking that, but let’s imagine for a moment that it is true.

Remember that movie years ago called “Outbreak”.  You know the one with the cute monkey who ended up being the cause of all the drama.  Well, Ebola is not that different and neither is this outbreak.  I mean the image they used in that movie was oddly similar to the Ebola virus when viewed under a microscope.  Truth be told, even scientist are scared of this virus.  When handling it in their secured labs they adopt the precautions of space walkers.  That should already be telling you something.  And now this virus is free to roam around West Africa and board airplanes to your country.

Nobody looks sexy in a biohazard suit but I am sure the designers from Project Runway could easily transform these suits into fashion forward Haute Couture.  It could be called “The Apocalypse” challenge.  Which brings me to the actual focus of my blog post – zombies.  Those who know me well will tell you that I am a firm believer that the zombie apocalypse is imminent and real.  And when it does happen having watched The Walking Dead and the show Doomsday Preppers could save your life.

So what are the chances of the Ebola outbreak prompting the Zombie Apocalypse?  Well, to be honest nobody knows.  However, that does not exclude the possibility though.  Just like we cannot exclude the possibility of aliens and that cats may one day rule the world.  It may sound farfetched but anything is possible really.  Just look at the Kardashians and Honey Boo Boo.  Neither of these two families have any talent nor are they very smart yet they became famous.  Frankly speaking, I prefer zombies to the likes of them any day.

In West Africa the dead have been buried in mass graves and even when a person is sick and dying on the street people refuse to help them.  They are too scared of getting infected.  Being buried in a huge hole with strangers and being refused help in a public area understandably could cause people to bear a grudge.  So if these victims of Ebola had to rise from the dead as zombies naturally they would be pissed off.  Firstly, because they bled to death from all their orifices and that shit is just fucked up and secondly, because they were not treated with dignity and now they are hungry for brains and out for revenge!

I can see how Ebola Zombies would freak people out more than normal zombies.  Not only would they want to eat you but they could also still infect you will Ebola.  So in that situation you will end up having three choices.  Well, actually four but shitting yourself could in all probability happen concurrently with the other three.  Firstly, you can decide to allow yourself get eaten alive.  Secondly, you can decide that dying of Ebola in the street with strangers watching is not that bad. Or thirdly, you can decide to fight and still run the risk of being infected with Ebola.  I am not sure which option I would choose.

In all seriousness, the Ebola outbreak is no joke.  As of yet it does not seem if the outbreak is under control and a number of cases have already been identified outside of West Africa.  I was recently asked by a friend in Canada whether they should be worried and my answer was yes.  As long as there are an outbreak and people are free to travel then we are all at risk.  If you have health care practitioners helping out in the affected areas then you are at risk.  I don’t think the Ebola outbreak should cause mass hysteria but people should be cautious.  If you want to get hysterical then rather wait for the zombies.

Till next time.

I Am Not Dead Yet!

Being sick is one of the most awful things in the world.  I have just started to recover from two weeks of coughing up green slime, a snot marathon and feeling like I bungee jumped off a bridge without a bungee cord.  When sick I am also one of the worst patients you will ever come across even when heavily medicated.  You see when I am ill and on a myriad of drugs I tend to become emotional.  My emotional range varying from self pity and believing that I am really dying and that nobody cares resulting in me having episodes of crying like an emotionally disturbed child who just broke his favorite toy, to being an angry and highly agitated bitch on steroids (with the  steroids actually being 2000mg of penicillin per day).  They say when men are sick they tend to behave like babies and looking back at my 14 day antibiotic haze I could not help but wonder – is this actually true?

In January hubby and I returned from our holiday on Paradise Island.  Unbeknown to me I returned from our holiday with a little gift; the gift being double pneumonia.  Long story short, when we landed back home I was directly taken to hospital with my pretty ocean view of 24 hour earlier replaced with a view of an old dying queen in front of me, my drip and an oxygen tank.

My stay in hospital was abruptly ended when I had a complete emotional melt down after one particular evil nurse popped one of my veins for the 3^rd time when she tried to fix my drip.  I did the ugly cry and my pulmonologist discharged me from hospital but not before giving me a very serious and stern warning: “Many people die of pneumonia every year, even young healthy men like you.  This is to be taken seriously.  Your lungs are damaged and for the next 12 months you will be vulnerable to respiratory ailments that could again result in pneumonia.  Take special care this winter, OK?”

This doctor died of a heart attack a couple of weeks ago and his heart attack is in no way related to me (just saying).  I heeded his warning and have been taking Vitamin C supplements ever since and everything was going well until after my birthday party.  You see we sat outside under a gas heater for most of the evening.  Drank way to many tequila and caramel vodka shooters and the next day I felt like Jose Cuervo and a Russian tried to kill me.  I was hung over and felt sick.  Monday morning I went to work feeling like death warmed up and believed it must be the aftermath of my hang over and me moving on in years, but it wasn’t.

You see I caught a bug the night of my party and the son of a bitch was inside my lungs making babies.  By Tuesday I could no longer ignore my symptoms (i.e. the pain when I was breathing) and consulted with my personal physician.  He did his normal examination and we ended up arguing; he said I had a fever and said I didn’t.  Eventually I went for X-rays and the final diagnosis was that I was developing pneumonia in my left lung.  I cursed, he scribbled a prescription and a sick note for work and I left coughing and wheezing all the way home.

The next couple of days I spent in the horizontal position with my earthly existence being restricted to antibiotics, cough syrup, anti-inflammatory medication, chicken soup and reruns of MacGyver and CSI New York.  By the following Monday I was convinced that I was fine to go back to work and that if I was ever in a pickle that I would be able to get myself out of it with a paperclip, tinfoil and a piece of string.  I was also confident that if I had to work a murder case that I would be able to solve the shit out of it in under 52 minutes.  I was wrong.

I arrived at work as high as a kite on antibiotics.  I floated through the day not being able to concentrate or focus.  The next day I realized I was still not fine and went back to my doctor only to learn that the pneumonia was cleared up but that I now had bronchitis.  “Mother. Fucking. Hell.” was my reaction and the doctor’s considered professional medical opinion of the cause was, and I quote “It is winter.”

By this time my tolerance level for being sick had reached critical mass and I found myself regressing back to being an emotionally needy and rather pissed off toddler.  With a second round of antibiotics, coughing up and secreting rather unearthly looking fluids from my nose and lungs I was not sure who were more irritated with me being sick – my cats watching me clearly wondering what their plan B was if I died or me wondering when I was going to die.

Poor hubby barely survived the 14 days having to deal with a sick, cranky and super emotional bitch.  But being the gentle soul that he is, he managed to control the situation and defuse the supernova that almost occurred roughly 30 times.  One evening I even ended up yelling “I AM DYING!  i am dying, don’t you love me?  Nobody loves me…” while wiping drool and snot from my fever flushed cheek.

Yes, in my personal experience, I can emphatically state that men when sick do not behave like babies.  Men behave like emotionally needy toddlers and it’s best to keep them heavily medicated and in an emotionally tranquil state for the duration of their recovery.  My main problem when I am starting to get sick is my categorical denial that I am sick and when I eventually accept that I am, is my firm suspicion that I am dying.  All the emotionally charged nuclear fallout after that I blame on the medication.  I am still not completely well yet but at least I am no longer lying in bed stewing in my own snot and self-pity.  I will survive *cough* I really will *sneeze*…

Till next time.

The Gay Plague

1981 saw the emergence of a disease that would change the gay community and later the world’s attitude towards our sexual behavior, lifestyle and prejudices. It was 1st described as the Gay Plague; a disease that only affected gay men and was 1st called GRID (Gay Related Immune Deficiency). During the 80’s the word GRID was replaced with AIDS and this filled people with a horrendous fear as images of dying emaciated gay men were plastered in the media.

During this time it was uncertain how the disease was transmitted and it was viewed as a death sentence and was highly stigmatized. Having the Gay Plague was shameful and society alienated those infected due to fear and ignorance. Now, 30 years later, I wonder how much have changed?

My 1st encounter with HIV and AIDS was with a friend of mine in 1996. He was diagnosed with HIV 8 years prior and during the winter of 1996 he fell ill and died of AIDS related complications. All his friends knew of his HIV status that’s why we found it shocking that his family at his funeral told people he had died of Cancer. Even after his death his illness was denied. The shame of having a gay son was soon superseded by having a gay son with HIV that died of the disease.

His family never approved of his lifestyle and had always blamed his homosexuality for his death when, as a matter of fact, he contracted the illness through a blood transfusion after a car accident. His family have still not forgiven the gay community for what we evidently had done to their son; his death instead of enlightening his family to the plight of people with HIV has made them homophobic and left them angry. Whether their prejudice and anger has dissipated since is uncertain.

One of my best friends of 12 years was diagnosed with HIV 8 years ago. I remember the day he told me.  He had just learned of his diagnoses the week before and was still reeling from shock. I remember him finding it difficult to muster the courage to utter the words. In his eyes I could see his fear, sadness and helplessness as he faced an uncertain future. All he longed for from me was an ear to listen, a shoulder to cry on and someone to provide him with encouragement and support and not to be judgmental.

Isn’t that what we all would want? He admitted that he contracted HIV due to having unprotected sex. I remember thinking to myself that he should have known better, and now due to one stupid incident he’s going to live with a sword hanging over his head for the rest of his life. Naturally, I kept my thoughts to myself; after all it happened and he’s HIV+ now and there is no use crying over spilled milk.

The 1st year following his diagnoses he found it incredibly difficult to accept. Due to denial and anger he spent the year engaging in self-destructive behavior – abusing alcohol and drugs. I recall having a conversation with him trying to convince him to get his life back on track but he refused as he was of the attitude that he’s going to die anyway so why prolong the process. He also mentioned that he intended to commit suicide once he got full blown AIDS as he wouldn’t want his friends and family to watch him suffer.  He was not scared of dying but feared the process of dying! At the time his threat of suicide was no idle one.

His family did not make things easier.  In fact, due to ignorance, they made things worse. They would have separate cutlery for him in the house and his laundry was kept separate from theirs - he was truly being treated like he had the plague. I am sure his family didn’t do this because they didn’t love him; they were scared as they didn’t quite know how to deal with and support their child and brother with HIV.

Gradually, as time passed, his family became more educated and their attitude and ignorant behavior changed. Family life almost returned to normal: 2 years after being diagnosed he was still alive and no family member got infected by sharing a glass with him or having their laundry done with his. However, his self-destructive behavior continued until he fell seriously ill.

For the 1st time he faced the real possibility of death. The experience changed him and the realization came that if he does not accept and deal with the fact that he’s HIV+ and take responsibility for his own live and health he would not live past the age of 30. He had a fundamental paradigm shift as only a near death encounter can achieve. For the last 5 years he has lived a normal, healthy and productive life. He has even had a couple of relationships, which is notoriously difficult as very few healthy gay men would be willing to date someone with HIV. However, he did find someone and they were together for almost 2 years. Like most things in life it has not been smooth sailing and a few health scares has rocked the boat. What I have learned from him is that your attitude, shear will and optimism plays an important part of living with HIV – it’s no longer is a death sentence as was first thought 30 years ago.

Being only 4 years old when the Gay Plague surfaced I literally grew up with it. Now,  34 I have seen how society and their attitudes have changed. HIV is no longer an exclusively gay disease and all spheres of society from all corners of the world are affected. There are very few people whose lives have not been touched by the disease as most of us know someone or know off someone who has HIV.

As we have learned more about the disease, how it’s transmitted and newer and more effective treatments are developed HIV+ people are living longer and their quality of life have also improved. However, in many communities HIV is still stigmatized and ignorance about the disease is still rampant. With all we know and have learned about HIV there are still people that engage in unprotected sex and people who refuse to get tested out of fear. After 30 years much have improved but many problems still remain that only our generation can change if we want to leave the world better place for the next generation.

One way to support this cause is to get involved. I recently discovered a very inspiring website called Positive Heroes . There are similar groups and websites across the globe; they say it only take one person to make a difference – let that 1 person be you!  Know your status and get tested today.

Till next time.

The Year I Accidentally Poisoned Myself

This past weekend was our 14 year anniversary. Quite a feat, in my opinion, seeing as these days it seems that relationships don’t last longer than 14 months. And for all those folk out there apposing gay marriage, we have been legally married for 6 years now and the world haven’t ended, society haven’t gone to shit and the only people destroying the sanctity of marriage are those folks who are getting divorced. Something that also is not the gays fault. But I digress... Like any proper gay couple hubby and I decided to celebrate our anniversary at a fancy French restaurant, have a ridiculously expensive meal and then go back home and have some romantic sexy time in front of the fireplace. But as fate would have it that is not what happened.

You see, in my life nothing ever works out as planned and like I have said so many times before - optimism has never served me well! Firstly, some freak show in the USA predicted that the rapture was scheduled on the same day as our anniversary, which I thought was quite inconsiderate as I always thought Jesus would return on a Sunday. Secondly, on Saturday we discovered with quite a shock that we had a termite/ant infestation and the fuckers had constructed elaborate villages around our swimming pool pump and various other places. To be honest, I didn’t pay much attention to the rapture but I did freak out about our bug invasion. So hubby and I promptly decided to go and get some toxic compound so that we could make like Saddam Hussein and start our own campaign of terror and release our weapon of mass destruction.

An hour later we returned home with our poison ready to commence with Operation Genocide. Hubby diluted to compound and off we went and sprayed the hell out of their nests; a procedure first done by hubby and then repeated by myself 30 minutes later. Having confirmed our status of being on top of the food chain and Queens of our own yard, we were satisfied that the little invaders were dying and our problem was solved. So we showered, made ourselves pretty and set off for a romantic night of good food and romance. For once the lady that lives in my GPS gave us proper direction and we arrived at the restaurant only 7 minutes late, not that the hostess noticed. And our romantic evening was off to a great start.

We opted for the restaurant’s 5 course tasting menu inclusive of wine and the first 3 courses were absolutely scrumptious. After our 3rd course we had to go and stand outside in the cold in order for me to have a cigarette (I hate South Africa’s stupid smoking laws and yes I am still smoking). Admiring the view and puffing away our romantic evening come to an abrupt halt with me suddenly falling ill. My stomach was turning and I needed to get to the loo as I was nanoseconds away from shitting my pants! The gentleman that my husband is he took my coat, and off I rushed to the toilet trying to get there in a dignified manner. Half way there I decided screw dignified and leaped into a sprint and almost didn’t make it in time! A good few minutes past before I managed to return to our table looking pale, feeling lightheaded and no longer feeling fabulous and sexy, but rather flat and almost soiled. Hubby looked concerned, but I was determined not to have our evening spoiled by whatever it was that I was afflicted with.

We finished the last two courses, paid the check and then drove home. At home my condition continued to deteriorate. I thought I had food poising and blamed the two minute noodles I had for lunch earlier that day. All astronomical food related illnesses I had suffered always, in one way or another, involved noodles. There were to be no sexy time for us and what followed was shit literally! This Queen spend the better part of Saturday evening and early hours of Sunday morning on my throne crapping. As my bowels were being ravished and my sphincter not getting the kind of attention it was anticipating my mind drifted to thoughts about the rapture that was scheduled for 2am in my time zone.

At 1:30am I was asking myself many important life changing questions. Was this my apocalypse? Am I being ruptured through my anus? Or is the rapture going to occur through my anus and was I busy making room? Is this how I would like to meet Jesus, with my pants down sitting on the toilet with my BlackBerry Tweeting? If so God really had a strange sense of humour and I knew that he has a plan for my life but I couldn’t figure out how this fits into it. I am sure that at that point I was dehydrated and therefore also a tad irrational. At around 2am I was all crapped out and fell into bed wondering whether I should be wearing adult diapers. With that my last thought I fell asleep with hubby’s comforting arms tightly wrapped around me.

Waking up Sunday morning, the world was still there and the rapture did not occur sucking worthy Christians into my ass on route to heaven. I was still feeling weak but the diarrhea had stopped. It was a bit later during the day that we figured out what had happened that made me sick. I was poisoned but it wasn’t food poisoning – it was fucking ant poison!!! It seems that when I went in for phase two of Operation Genocide I accidentally poisoned myself. Either by breathing in the vapour or by getting some of liquid on my hands because I was smoking and so inevitably I ingested it. So what’s the moral of the story – don’t smoke and kill, always wear latex gloves when dealing with poison and don’t attempt pest control yourself rather hire a professional!

Yes, our anniversary didn’t quite go as planned and our 14th anniversary is now known as the year I accidentally poisoned myself. I am sure in 10 years time I will be able to laugh about it, but for now it still isn’t very funny. More upsetting is the fact that the fuckers for who the poison was intended are still alive, they are still building their little taunting towers and diligently digging up our paving. But they will die this week, I promise you that much! I’m getting out a professional ant/termite Terminator. For them the apocalypse is nigh and their rapture will not be through my asshole.

Till next time.

Beaten up by a Lesbian?

It has almost been two weeks since my surgery and I’m slowly awakening from my antibiotic, ant-inflammatory- and pain medication haze. I’m bruised, battered and slightly worse for wear but at least it’s all over and I can again string two coherent sentences together. The surgery went well, I’m healing and in six to eight weeks, after I have seen every hue of purple my body can produce and the swelling finally subsides, I shall be happy with the result. Plastic surgery isn’t for the faint of heart and looking back and catching unflattering glimpses of myself in the mirror it begs the question – Will I do it again?

The morning of my surgery I was a mixture of excited to finally have the source of my esthetic discontent cut out of my body and incredibly nervous to undergo twilight anesthesia. The prospect of being semi conscious while somebody takes a scalpel to your eyes is less than thrilling. Hubby and I arrived at the doctor’s office fashionably 5 minutes early and like a lamb to the slaughter I checked in. After a short but agonizing wait the surgeon fetched me from the waiting area, introduced me to the nurse that was going to assist him, made some small talk, laid me on the bed then took my arm gently placed the drip’s needle into a vain. It wasn’t long after this that things became fuzzy and my recollection of what transpired is patchy to say the least.

I do recall that at one stage I was in discomfort and after responding to the surgeon’s question to that effect things went blank again. I also recall that I was asked to open my eyes, being aware that I was being stitched up and after the surgery asking to see what had been cut out (I’m macabrely weird like that). The next memory was of us driving home and then waking up in bed. Queerly, I don’t recall ever actually being in any kind of pain. Waking up in bed realizing that the surgery was over I couldn’t resist taking a look at my face. Looking at myself in the bathroom mirror I recall thinking to myself that I didn’t look that bad, I was only slightly swollen and bruised, little did I know it was about to get a great deal worse.

It wasn’t until that evening that the swelling began. My eyes swelled up like carnival balloon, went pink and then a dark purple. I looked like I was in a fight with a butch dyke and her biker friends and I had lost! For dramatic effect I was also bleeding a little from my stitches. I looked ghoulish and hubby was understandably horrified! It was a long night; I slept in the vampire position and became very familiar with the term “discomfort”. Strangely enough it didn’t physically hurt but it sure was painful to watch, so I decided to keep a photo diary of my recovery (again I’m macabrely weird like that). The next few days were spent mostly in bed and an unhealthy relationship with ice packs emerged. I was in loved my two blue frosty pads of comfort – they were my precious!

The first week of being semi immobilized vertically and socially unacceptably looking I did the only thing I could – I watched allot of television and slept. I caught up with Oprah and Ellen and watched all ten hours of the 83rd Academy Awards (E’s red carpet, the unedited award ceremony and E’s Fashion Police’s Oscar special). My sleeping pattern was noticeably screwed up and I felt jet lagged. Week two wasn’t much better but I was at least out of bed more. The main source of annoyance after the surgery strangely enough wasn’t the bruising or the swelling but those damn stitches! They itched and it drove me insane! Luckily, a week after surgery they were taken out, much to my relief, and this was also the only painful part of my plastic surgery procedure. My follow up visit was largely uneventful, I was told I’m healing great will be looking fabulous in two months time and to still take it easy for another week. But I was really getting bored at home, tired of television so I had to find something else to do.

So I discovered Facebook’s Farmville, the most annoying and frustrating thing ever invented by mankind. It’s time consuming, competitive and after one week I was ready to give it up and let my little cyber farm wither and die. But at least it kept my occupied for a while. As my bruising and swelling started subsiding I ventured out of my self-imposed isolation and instead of asking hubby to get stuff from the shop I braved going out in public. My Prada sunglasses came in handy nicely hiding my now blue, green and yellow eyes. However, it is quite strange how quickly one can forget that you still look pretty bad if you don’t look at yourself in the mirror every five minutes. This little slip of the mind grossed out and shocked a few people the other day.

In the shop minding my own business I was looking for eye drops in the self medication section and was unable to find it. Being far- and near sighted at the same time and the well illuminated shelves dimmed by Prada and deep in thought I took off my sunglasses to take a better look. Not finding it, I proceeded to finish my shopping. I noticed people looking at me funny but I just thought they were all having a bad day and I ignored them. It wasn’t until I made it to the front of the checkout counter that I realized the cause of the stares. “Sir, I know it is none of my business but who did this to you?” a very concerned lady asked me. Taken aback by her frankness and realizing that my sunglasses were on my head and not on my face the only response I could think off at that moment was “Dr Paul Pienaar”. Not elaborating the lady probably left thinking my plastic surgeon beat me up and that’s fine too.

Tomorrow it will be two weeks since my surgery and I will be returning to that place that pays my bills. Most of my colleagues know what I have done and those who don’t will probably think I was either gay bashed, beaten up by a lesbian, in an abusive relationship, in a car accident or walked into a door. In retrospect I am happy that I have done this and the experience was not all that unpleasant. I’m still healing, still a bit bruised but all things considered it was worth it. I can’t wait to see the full result and patience is not one of my virtues, but alas I have no choice. Will I do this again? Ask me again in ten years and the answer will most probably be yes!

Till next time.

Lady Gaga - Born This Way

I’ve got the Swine Flu!

First there was the Bird Flu and the world was in a panic, having also forever changed my view of birds. Now there is the Swine Flu, and yet again fears of a pandemic are rife. Never in a million years did I think I would contract this disease – a disease associated with pigs! Being well on my way to a full recovery I am happy to report that I have not grown a pig tail or developed an irresistible attraction to mud. I have however been coughing and sneezing my way through a very uncomfortable few days looking like Rudolf the Red Nosed Reindeer.
Having been at a conference for the better part of last week I developed flu like symptoms earlier in the week. At first I thought it may just be allergies (sometimes I should life in a plastic bubble as I am allergic to dust, grass, pollen, feathers and list goes on). It started with a runny nose, progressed to a severe head ache, sore throat, muscle pain and then the coughing started. By Friday morning I could not get out of bed, feeling like death warmed up. I remembered joking about maybe having Swine Flu earlier in the week, but by this time the joked seemed less hilarious and more of an ominous punishment. Later, on Friday morning my Dr confirmed I indeed had the Swine Flu and I was advised to inform my colleagues to consult with a Dr if they present with symptoms. The phone call to my boss was met with a nervous chuckle. At first he was slightly shocked but having a mature sense of humor he made a dietary comment suggesting I eat a lot of bacon, drink plenty of fluids and get some bed rest.
Armed with Tamiflu, antibiotics and assortment of other medicine I returned home. Upon seeing the small pharmacy I had in hand my housekeeper asked me what was wrong. I told her I had swine flu. She paused, frowned then shrugged her shoulders and said “At least it’s better than having Aids!” and continued washing the dishes. The warmth and empathy emanating from her was absolutely palpable as she has the bedside manner of an undertaker. I made my way to the bedroom feeling very sorry for myself as only a sick gay man can do, got into my pj’s and crawled into bed. The next few days passed in a medicated haze with chills, fever, slight nausea and persistent coughing. Husband handling sick people with much greater ease than I do was the perfect nurse, all he needed was the cute outfit. At least his empathy was genuine and his chicken soup delicious but it reminded me of Bird Flu.
Having been immobilized for last few days I had a lot of time to think. I wondered where all these queer diseases come from, and how they are given their names. I guess it’s been made easy -Bird Flu is derived from birds and Swine flue from pigs. Both diseases being quite exotic, quite contagious and now infamous but yet their names do not reflect how they will make you feel. Not having had Bird Flu I shall not comment on it, but having had Swine flu I feel obliged to rename it to appropriately describe what the patient can expect. Taking into account how dreadful I felt the last couple of days, on account of this flu, I feel it appropriate to rename it the “Spewing Wheezing Intolerable Nauseating Evil Flu” – SWINE for short!
Swine Flu being as contagious as it is, I was left to retrace my steps to determine where I contracted it. The only conclusion I could reach is that this pig flu was given to me by some swine at a restaurant the previous weekend. My husband is quite lucky that I was away during the time I was infectious otherwise in all probability he would have contracted it as well. It would have been a rather unpleasant domestic situation had we both been ill. Our cats probably would have gone into a panic as their only source of food would have been bedridden.
Recovering from the Swine Flu and can honestly say I do not recommend it. I am quite fortunate that I only had a mild case I didn’t need to be to go to the “Germ Factory” (aka hospital). In all honesty I must admit Swine Flu is unpleasant but it’s not as bad as people think - it’s basically flu on steroids! If you look after yourself and go to the Dr in time it pretty much is non-lethal. You will feel like road kill but within a week you will be back on your feet again, with fond memories of having survived the Swine Flu, being a statistic and making sure if anyone coughs or sneezes near you to run away screaming while searching your bag for disinfectant.

Till next time.

Elvira Kurt at the Just For Laughs Comedy Festival in Montreal .

Flu and the peeing Buddha

I love the rain, but delight turned into dread as we have been drenched for the last few weeks. The fluctuation in temperature combined with me forgetting the one golden rule my mother taught me (make sure you are dressed warm) caused me to catch the flu. I absolutely hate being sick! The last time I had the flu was 5 years ago. Between coughing, sneezing, general body aches and fever I was in denial until a simple maneuver with my car ended up with me scratching my bumper against a pole. Staring at the white paint of the pole on the black paint of my car and calculating in my head how much the repair will cost, it finally sunk in – I am sick and must see the Dr!

It was confirmed, I indeed had flu. He prescribed the usual treatment and 2 days of bed rest. Clearly the Dr forgot I am a Type A personality and asking me to stay in bed is like asking the pope to go to a rave club. I can not lie in bed for 2 whole days, I’d go insane. They say men become like babies when they are sick. In my case that holds very true. When ill I have a very short fuse, need to be loved, pampered, cuddled and have things carried after me and done for me, or else I sulk or display menopausal mood swings. Flashes of fever makes me feel like I am taking mini tropical holidays to hell and the coughing resemble the sounds of crazed demons you’d expect to find there.

Having 2 days of “bed rest” I became very creative in passing the time. Besides trying to sleep (I am a chronic insomniac), surfing the net and watching TV (which takes very little physical exertion) I also ventured into the strange world of Chinese teas. A friend of ours recently returned from China and brought my husband I a goody bag, which included amongst other things, a peeing Buddha and Chinese flowering tea. There is a whole ritual to preparing the perfect cup of tea; a ritual that took me just over 3 hours to master and an utter loathing for a small ceramic little fat man.

The ritual seems straightforward. First, you have to soak your ceramic Buddha in water; after the little man is soaked you boil your tea water and then poor the boiled water over the Buddha. If he pees the water is perfect, if not the water is either burnt or too cold. Who knew you could burn water? Seems simple enough, however my Buddha didn’t want to pee! The little ceramic instrument of mental torture made me boil water 12 times before releasing a gentle stream of approval from beneath his fat belly. With the perfect boiled water I was ready for my flowering Chinese tea. Watching tea infuse has never quite been so exciting, watching the odd looking ball bloom into a beautiful flower was the pay off I was hoping for. Tea that’s pretty and aromatic is good for the soul, but taking 3 hours to make it is just obscure.

Being sick is not fun for anyone. Being sick and bored is worse. Luckily it’s not a permanent situation and soon I will be up and about again. My husband has been a very good nurse, just a pity he doen’t have a matching outfit. He has been patient, showed the appropriate amount of concern and affection and been firm when I displayed childish behavior. Getting sick, I believe, is your body’s way of forcing you to take a break, slow down and get some much needed rest. If you are anything like me, absolute boredom will also usher you into exploring strange and sometimes silly things to amuse yourself while your body heals. I would love to hear what you get up to when forced to “bed rest”.

Till next time.

Persimmon Diet - Margaret Cho

It will never happen to me!

Many of us live our lives largely unaffected by news events or by the turmoil of others. We are bombarded with atrocious events in the print and news media and think to ourselves “It will never happen to me”. We have empathy for those affected by war, disease, violence and poverty, but it rarely extent past our comfort zone. This week I was forced out of my comfort zone. Media reports had a direct impact on my live and the plight of someone conjured up painful memories.

Last week news broke that the final death blow was delivered to the organization I work for. Legislation fashioned in an undemocratic manner was adopted and signed thereby blighting the future careers of all of us who are affected. A sombre mood followed. Having to face the challenge of integrating with another organization, not having a clear sense of direction and being confused by the process that is to follow is daunting to say the least.

For the first time decisions made by government will have a direct impact on my life. It’s easy to slip into depression and become muted or even passive aggressive due to a sense of powerlessness. Reading the news articles I wonder how many other people read about their fate in the news and whether the feeling of obscurity I had is the same. As the initial impact passed and the shockwaves grew slighter, I realized how resilient one must be to survive. I adopted an attitude of liability towards my own future; no matter what will be thrown at me I will be prepared to face the challenge. It may be easier said than done, but being negative and anticipating that which I don’t know will only hinder the successful negotiation of my future. This holds true for most trials in life.

During the same week a colleague was diagnosed with cancer and a famous actress, I admired, died from the disease. My colleague is a young vibrant woman who has always been in great health and good spirit. The news of her illness visibly destroyed her. Having an oncologist tell you to make sure your affairs are in order is the worst words anyone can hear. The same words fell on my mother’s ears just over 4 years ago. She learned that she had terminal cancer and had less than 18 months to live. We all know that we are going to die, how ominious it must be to know your specific deadline.

I saw my mother go through all the phases from denial, anger, bargaining and depression. Acceptance was tough for all of us but most arduous for my mother. I saw the strong woman that raised me wither away as the disease ravaged her body and at times stripped her of her dignity. The morning she died I felt relieved that her suffering was over. It took a long time to eliminate the visual memory of my dying mother and surrogate it with a memory of her at her prime - therapy helped. We were fortunate, we had time to prepare and had time to say good bye. I am not sure I understand how difficult it must have been for her during the last 9 months of her life, but she remained strong willed until sheer will and faith was not enough.

Cancer is an inhumane and indiscriminate disease. Saying good bye to my colleague as she sets off on the battle of her life, the memory of my mother prevented me from saying phrases like “Stay strong”, “You can beat this” and “Everything is going to be ok” - those words are futile. She will not stay strong, she may die and things are not going to be ok: She will be sick from treatments; her body will be scarred from surgery; emotionally she will go to the darkest places she has ever been and if she survives the memory of her illness will haunt her every time she falls ill, discovers a lump or see her scars. The only words of encouragement I could muster was “Laugh every opportunity you get, cry when you must, take it a day at a time and never loose your will to live”.

The past week helped me get perspective. As I said before, there are no certainties in life and that which is unexpected in all probability could happen to you. I realized that I should be grateful for what I have in my life and embrace adversities as it can only devastate me if I allow it to. The challenges that I face seem insignificant compared to that of others, and I will always remember that all people’s experiences are inherently egoistic. Your own problems, at the end of the day, are more important to you than those of others.

I challenge everyone who read this to take a “tea break” from your own life and have a good look around you and savour the moment.

Don’t let an opportunity go by to laugh. Don’t be afraid to cry. Life is too short.

Till next time.

HERE COMES THE SUN as sung by Nina Simone

A bitter pill to swallow

Returning from a holiday is always a bitter sweat affair. On the one hand I languish at returning to the monotonous status quo and on the other hand I am delighted being home around all that’s familiar and comforting.

Our return home was a shitty affair! We got food poisoning on our first day back – damn pizza! My husband and I were close to death; or rather that’s how I felt. I was waiting for the white light and the short film of my life to flash before my eyes.

Between nausea and diarrhea, I learned one important thing about modern medicine: Suppository pills were invented by an evil person. The first time I got intimately acquainted with a suppository I swear I didn’t know what it was. Then someone explained to me how it worked and I was briefly traumatized. The second trauma came when I had to take it. Basic human anatomy dictates that no foreign object wants to stay lodged in the human rectum and naturally wants to get out, and I feared the damn thing was going to slip out. Then when I learned that body temperature melts the pill I was concerned about anal seepage. Hence, my first suppository experience was stressful, painful and unpleasant (not much unlike when I lost my virginity) and I was not looking forward to a repeat performance even though this time I would be better prepared.

Unfortunately the suppository pill was the only thing that helped for the nausea and at one stage I weighed up which was worse - taking the pill up my bum or surrendering to the nausea and letting nature take its course. The suppository won! I know this may sound weird, a gay guy complaining about taking anything up his bum, but I have the firm belief that medication should be taken orally and the other way round is just wrong. Luckily the food poisoning only lasted 24 hours. It was the longest and most uncomfortable 24 hours I experienced in quite some time.

I few days later I returned to work. I didn’t feel ready to go back, I didn’t want to go, I felt sorry for myself and I felt like a seven year old school child going back to school (but without the tears and tantrums). I was not the only one whose jaw could plow a corn field being so dreadfully unexcited at being back at the office. Returning back to work is always fraught with obstacles. The first few days back felt like I was navigating my way through office politics without a compass. It takes a couple of meetings and reading through my overflowing e-mail inbox before it all to comes flooding back: The overbearing colleague, the colleague with the tumultuous and violent lesbian relationship, the back stabber, the adulterer and the self pitying singles. Reestablishing me in the tribe takes some skillful diplomacy, grinding of teeth, faking smiles and reconnecting with people who for a few weeks will feel like utter strangers. The only solace at this point is the reality that nothing has really changed, the work remains the same and the people too, it’s just my mindset that needs to reset to an acceptable compliant state. I have to grind my teeth, fake a smile and push on. However, diplomacy as always will remain the most challenging.

Till next time.

"Queen Tom boy, Dance Gay music
This is a song for all Bisexual,Gay,and Lesbian around the world.
You can download hight quality video clip here
http://www.megaupload.com/?d=0OHCSBYH
thanks to His Majesty Tom boy and Webmaster Dennis Tran"