Ok kids, I’m still not feeling well. I’ve seen the doctor and I’ve been given a course of pills and inhalants for this friggin cold. The unfortunate side-effect that I wasn’t told about was my sudden change in mood. I’m a purring fluffy kitty and I can’t work myself into a lather over anything dark or depressing. I’m using every ounce of my cynicism to write this post because I don’t know when I’ll return to normal.

For now, I’m like Mr Burns all hopped up on his life extending treatments. If you see a glowing pinoyboy prancing around the woods claiming to bring peace and love… break its legs [link]

Friday morning (9/29) I awoke with a sore and tender mass under the left side of my jaw. My lymph system is a funny thing, it will trap microbial beasties but isn’t very efficient in ridding my body of them. I knew I shouldn’t have poked at my jaw but there was a perverse pleasurable feeling knowing that each jab to the nodule released more antigens into my system. Hoping that this wouldn’t escalate into a full blown cold, I agreed to continue with our plans to drive down to the country and go to the county fair.

Saturday morning, the swollen gland had drained and my lungs became congested. I had no fever, no stuffy nose or sinus, no aches, no couggh, nor chills. I felt fit and fine enough for a day at the county fair. We went through exhibits of livestock, prize-winning freakishly pretty and large produce, and the insidious midway of trans-fats. All-in-all it was a good day and we settled at Snuffy’s sister’s home for the night. The over-the-counter medicine I took earlier did a good job of suppressing cough and clearing congestion, but that only made the situation worse. The crud in my lungs were forced into nooks and crannies and my coughs were chemically stifled so that I could not force it out.

My blind optimism caused me to leave the apartment without any prescription inhaler or breathing treatment. As my lungs filled up, I tried age-old ways of coping with congestion; steam and camphor-based ointments. My heart was racing to keep blood oxygen up, causing me to breath harder, which made it more difficult to clear my lungs. I started to feel light headed, but I couldn’t tell if it was from the lack of oxygen or fatigue.

I was in bad shape and didn’t see myself making it thorough the night, so I asked Snuffy to take me home knowing that a nebulizer filled with saline and albuterol would keep body and soul together. We left in the middle of the night, and it was a tenuous two hour car ride back home, with an over the counter inhaler which would only buy me thirty minutes of breathing time should I completely seize up.

Back at home, I assembled the nebulizer, loaded it full of drugs, and I was finally able to take a breather.

I have the fortune of living near one of the only female ginkgo trees in the area, I pass by it on the rare occasions that I take out the garbage.  A powerful presence in the yard, I stand in awe of its sheer size and shading capacity in the summer time.  The beautiful ginkgo tree has distinctively beautiful, supple, green fan-shaped leaves which turn a stunning butter color around this time of year.  Its fruit, approximately the size and shape of a cherry with a thin yellow skin like a peaches, drop into the yard.

Earlier this morning, I was tootling away at some light work here in my cube, fidgeting to find comfort in my seat when I caught a whiff of something slightly unpleasant.  I saw the empty bag of white cheddar cheese-its which was promptly deposited into a distant trash can.  Time passed, I noticed the fetor was still around.  I didn’t shart, there’s nothing on my sweatshirt, and I didn’t eat anything pungent.

Quite annoyed I went back to work and sat with one leg tucked under another .  I noticed the smell and saw the crushed unfertilized ova of the ginkgo on the bottom of my shoe.   As beautiful and majestic as the female ginkgo tree is, it is equally as hideous and horrendous if the skin of the fruit is breached.  When unfertilized ova of the ginkgo tree hit the ground they ferment and the smell ranges from spoiled milk to feces.  The cruelty of the tree’s beauty is an irony that I cannot bear, especially in the springtime when the snow melts and all that’s left in the yard is dog feces and rotted ginkgo fruit.

Beware of trees that bear beautiful leaves and pretty fruit.

Snuffy and I were at a wedding last weekend for an office mate. We were drinking with friends well before the reception and we were the first people in line when the bar opened. I was in not-so-rare form that night, people from his office who have never met me got a taste and feel (heh heh) of the real pinoyboy. I sat pretty in my seat, dosing out zingers and campy insight and we drew attention from people around us… sometimes not in a good way. Toasts were made, food was served, laughs were had, and many a ‘heeey’ were thrown about.

The party was heating up and people were dancing to nasty country rock-music, a style choice that I was not comfortable with. Visibly disgusted with the scene, Snuffy and I enjoyed each other’s company at table 29 when a blondie blonde from an adjacent table looked me straight in the eye, got up, and sat next to me. We exchanged conversation about the rowdiness of our table before during and after dinner, the lovely desserts, and the fact that I wasn’t dancing. Visablly disinterested, I politely smiled and often turned my head so that she would get the hint.

I didn’t understand her interest and making such a bold move, either she was clueless to that fact that I was sitting next to my boyfriend or that she was just that pressed for entertainment. Snuffy and I were thinking the former as she didn’t look too inebriated and her table wasn’t necessarily the card catalog at the public library. As a sub-aside to this aside readers, I seem to have this strange effect on straight women, ask me and I’ll tell you about the gal with the fake tattoo.

Our saving grace was our friend Ron, a handsome modern man of a certain age, who sat down next to us. I turned my attentions to him in hopes that blondie would as well. A few mintues of awkward silence later, she excused herself and went back to her table. The little quorum that was left discussed the woman’s intentions and we all shared a laugh at what seemed her failed attempt to make me her fun-boy for the evening. Moments later when people were milling about our table, Ron stood up and got a glass of courage. While chit-chatting with some office people, we noticed that Ron took a round-about route to the blondie blonde and asked her to dance. Snuffy and I were proudly beaming that our single friend Ron got a little action on the dance floor.

So, why am I telling this story now? We received thanks from Ron yesterday. No details were disclosed, but I’m thinking he had a good time that night. I know this isn’t exactly how straight girls feel when they get ditched at the gay bar because I kinda felt ditched myself, but I have the satisfaction that a straight guy picked up my seconds.