The Former Traveling Spotlight

The tales of a "30" something gay former stand-up comic living in NYC who is searching for his soul mate or soul...which ever comes first.

Tuesday, September 26, 2006

Anybody Get The Number of That Bus?

The surgery is over, and I'm home sitting up in a chair (and that...was a serious challenge at first!). Looking at all of the comments posted to both Tuna's and my own blog, not to mention the people that called or visited or sent me flowers and cards...I'm overwhelmed. Seriously overwhelmed. Unfortunately, my not posting exactly what I was going through worried people a bit more than I would have liked.

The past:
In 2000, I was diagnosed with esophageal cancer because I had such severe acid reflux. At the time, my Lower Esophageal Sphincter (LES) was opening too often, and letting stomach acid rise into and damage my esophagus. The resulting damage developed into a cancer that is very rare in people under 50, and has an extremely high mortality rate (90%). I had hit the unlucky disease lottery, and thankfully survived. Something I never forget or try to take for granted.

Back in early August, I had decided to go ahead and participate in the HIV vaccine program that is going on in NYC. The vaccine was in a stage 2 testing and the research gained from the results could be valuable. Maybe in 20 years, we can have a workable vaccination for HIV.

It was while going through the process of entering the study, the attending physician wanted me to go to a gastroenterologist and obtain a clearance, as a way to insure that I still remained cancer free.

I scheduled the appointment, and discussed my post cancer symptoms with my doctor (including extreme difficulty in swallowing because of scar tissue from having cancer and surgery). The key item that I told the doctor that had him raise his eyebrows what that even liquid was difficult to swallow.

Thus I became the lab rat and had several tests run. The end results showed three different problems, each hindering my swallowing.

The Diagnosis:

The first was scar tissue in my esophagus (which slowed solid food down). I had already known about this and up until last month, thought this was my only reason for difficulty in eating and drinking. I looked at it as a trade off from not having cancer anymore.
The second was a bone spur I had growing on my spinal discs from a injury (thanks dad). This also slowed solid food progression.
Lastly, the strangest discovery was that I had developed was a neurological disorder of the esophagus called Acahalsia. At this point, only 100,000 cases are diagnosed worldwide each year. In simple terms, the disorder causes the esophagus muscle to fail, and the Lower Esophagal Sphincter no longer relaxes. As Crash put it, "I never thought I'd hear that you have a tight sphincter!"

The doctor recommended surgery as the best way to solve all three problems at one time. The surgeon who agreed to do it is an expert in laparscopic surgery, and the concensus was that I had a 50-50 chance of this becoming an open surgery (meaning a 14 inch slice down the center of my chest and a rib spreader)

The Day of Surgery:
My clock went off at 6:00 am and I left the house at 6:45. I walked across the park and text messaged Tuna the following text:

Dead homo walkin'

Joke went poof. She was not happy with me. Especially since she wasn't up yet, and when she woke, that was the last text she thought she'd get from me.

I arrived at the hospital and after arguing with an admissions representative, I was ushered into the pre-surgery area, and placed into room 8, where I would wait until called for surgery. I know Tuna and others thought I was alone, but I knew people were with me in spirit.

They ended up taking me at 10:00 am, an hour earlier than I thought. The nurses agreed to hold my bag (with my cell phone) and I walked into the Operating Room. Yes, I walked. The anesthesiologist felt it was better to not give me anything prior to going in the room, mainly because by the time it took effect, I would be going under the general anesthesia. He would later regret that decision.

I walked into the room and each of my doctors, about 12 residents, their interns, and millions in equipment were all surrounding the metal table covered in blue surgical cloth. I saw the arm extension and stirrups, the two television monitors and at that point I couldn't breathe. In full panic attack, the anesthesiologist picked me up and put me on the table, and placed the IV into my arm. He pushed something to relax me and I got to stare at my reflection in the ceiling. This was my last thing I would see until I woke up.

What was done?
Using 5 incisions on my abdomen, they inflated my entire torso with gas, and then went about performing three surgeries. Going under my heart and lungs, they reduced the bone spur on my spine.

They then removed the scar tissue, as well as three inches of my esophagus that they felt needed to be removed. None of this tissue was cancerous, but it was severely damaged.

Lastly, they cut my LES in half, basically rendering it useless and wrapped my stomach around my esophagus. Total time in surgery was about 6 hours.

I woke up in recovery and was given percoset immediately. Within the next hour I was also given Demerol and Morphine. If you've never had those babies...I recommend them whole heartedly!

I had one surprise visitor while recovering in ICU. Someone who told the front desk he was my brother. As for who it really was...well...he knows who he is, and that's all that matters.

I was visited by David once I got to my room and spent the evening sucking on ice chips, before finally getting my bag at 8:40 pm. My bag had my cell phone in it, with all of my contact numbers, which is why it took me so long to text people. Although I don't remember texting that much.

My nurse called my doctor around midnight, mainly as I was having one complication. I had to get a catheter. The nurse, seeing the panic on my face, quickly injected me with a little extra morphine and I woke with the tubing in place. She did the same when she removed it the next morning. I secretly love her.

Friday was spent sucking on ice chips, having an endless stream of visitors from 1pm on, and receiving a beautiful flower arrangement from GBM. I can't thank you enough, and although the nurses took them away from me (I was on the transplant floor), I was able to take them home. The look incredible in my window.

Late Friday night, the hospital admitted a new patient, who would be my roommate. His incessant moaning and wailing kept me up enough that I asked to be discharged Saturday morning.

Thus why I am home.

Today, I'm sitting in a chair. It's a big step seeing I've been spending most of my day laying or sitting up in bed, drifting in and out of sleep. These pain killers pack a serious punch. It's my first time in a few days that I'm trying to focus my energy on completing a task (blogging in this case), and this post has been quite a long one.

For those of you who called me, or sent me cards, or just kept me in your thoughts, I can't tell you how much I appreciate it.

Tomorrow, I'll have to tell you about the sponge bath from hell.

Patrick - 4:45 PM -

Monday, September 25, 2006

The Curse

Still Tuna Girl here.

First and foremost, I should let you now that Patrick is home and doing as well as can be expected. He's getting out and walking a bit. He won't be running any races soon but he's doing well.

Okay, now on to more disgusting things.

Guest blogging is hard. It really is. You want to focus on your host, because people come here for him. Nobody really wants to read about your kids' soccer games or how your hair is extra floopy today. No, they want Patrick. They want funny stories (or naked pictures) about Patrick.

But there is a fine line. I mean, I know him pretty well. I don't want to tell his secrets. Besides, you wouldn't believe a lot of what I could tell you anyway. Like for instance, did you know that Patrick is very shy? No really! He is! I swear!

So I racked my brain and finally came up with an answer. I can tell a story about Patrick, but only embarrass myself. Perfect compromise. Besides, who doesn't love a good toxic waste story?
I am cursed. Every single time I get to spend time with Patrick, I get my period. And it's not like I can hide it from him, because, well, he keeps track. Yup. Once a month, just before my PMS gets out of control, a reminder pops up on Patrick's Treo to let him know that he should be on high alert.

The first time, I was staying in his old apartment in Cleveland. He had read my hot plumber story and so felt the need to tell me that I should, "not flush any toxic waste." He swore to me that a restriction against flushing feminine hygiene products was in his lease. He set out a "toxic waste disposal unit" and everything.

But old habits die hard. And, well, yes, you guessed it. Plop. Right in the toilet. But I had promised him. And I don't break promises. So...

I went toilet diving for a bloody tampon.

But the saddest thing is that I did it again. And again. In Cleveland and New York. And every time I go fishing I have to yell out, "Damn you Patrick Doyle. Damn you to hell!"

I have a sneaking suspicion that my toxic waste problem has worked its way into a comedy routine. But I'll never know because I've been forbidden from ever seeing his show. Damn, that man knows too much about me.

I think tomorrow I'll post those half-naked, goofy pictures. Or maybe I'll tell stories about his ex-boyfriends. Or, ooh! I could post naked pictures of his ex-boyfriends. (No, not you. Or you. I swear!) My husband is sick of carrying those pictures around on his iPod anyway.

Tuna Girl - 11:03 AM -

Friday, September 22, 2006

Very Cool Indeed

Tuna Girl here again.

I was talking to Patrick tonight and he asked if I had posted to his blog today. I felt a little like a kid who hadn't done her homework.

"No, I haven't. I just haven't had time."

"Oh, I see how it is," he said.

Guilt!

So I sat down to try and write something funny. It is The Traveling Spotlight after all, and to quote directly from the man himself, "I like making people smile." Word has it that he likes making people (male people) do a lot of other things too, but that is purely speculation on my part.

I took a look back at what Patrick had posted for me when he guest blogged during my surgery. He included a lot of funny pictures of teeth and chipmunks and bad drag and poppers. So I thought it might be funny to find a series of pictures of what could be hanging from my ceiling.

Damn Internet image search to hell. I found a whole lot of plant hangers and pot hangers. And even more people hanging from their piercings.

Oh. My. Dear. Lord.

My skin is still crawling. So much for that idea. I decided to take a different approach.

Before his surgery, I asked Patrick if there was anything he wanted me to write about. He has this bit he wants me to develop about Jerry Falwell or Pat Robertson. But I had to do research on those guys to even begin to make light of them. And that made me vomit.

So much for that. Different approach number three coming up.

When Lee suggested that I use my guest blogging opportunity to post, "nekkid, blackmail-esque photos of Patrick," I was going to reply that contrary to popular belief, I've never seen Patrick naked. Much less taken a picture of him.

But I was desperately searching through my image files today and I found...well...

I found pictures of him on our beach being all half-naked and goofy. And pictures of him wearing pasties. And pictures of him felating a corn dog. And more pictures of his ass than I can count.

It's tempting. But the poor baby is in the hospital. I just can't do it to him. Even though he did take a picture of me in a Yankees cap and cursed the Red Sox for another 86 years.

In desperation, I was going to start linking to some of the really wonderful stuff our friends have posted on their blogs (like Scott). I even considered sharing parts of some of the heart-touching e-mails, texts, and phone calls I've received. But there are way too many of those to even begin to list.

So in the end, I decided to keep it simple. But sappy. Because this is me after all.

Brain sent me a sweet e-mail. It ended with, "It's very cool that blogging brought the two of you together. Very cool indeed."

You're right, Brian. Indeed you're right.

I was wondering why my chest hurt tonight, and then I realized my heart had flown off to New York City without me.

Tuna Girl - 8:15 PM -

Thursday, September 21, 2006

Morphine is Good

Hey, guys. Tuna Girl here.

I wanted to let you all know that Patrick got through his surgery today just fine. I talked to him at about 7 p.m. tonight and he was in good spirits. And he has a message for all of you: "Morphine is a wonderful thing."

He was mellow enough that he didn't really give me a lot of information on exactly how things went. But they told him he may be able to go home as soon as tomorrow, so I'm taking that as a very good sign. David was visiting when I called and reports that he is doing well, having a little pain and sucking on ice chips, but in good spirits.

After letting him know how relieved I was, one of the first things I told him was how many of you had called or e-mailed your support. I told him that so very many people care about him. I might have to remind him again later, but I'm sure he will be very touched. I was completely blown away by our friends today. So thank you, from the bottom of my heart.

I'm sure Patrick will be back before we know it. He can barely contain his witty innuendo. But in the meantime, he tells me I should use his blog as a free-for-all to say all the things I can't say on my own blog.

I think he just wants me to admit what those hooks were for.

Update: I just talked to Patrick again and he asked me to let you all know how much he appreciates your support. He's planning on pushing his hospital stay one more day so he can get enough rest to be comfortable at home. I think that's an excellent plan.

Tuna Girl - 9:31 PM -

Wednesday, September 20, 2006

Any Last Requests?

One of the things I haven't mentioned to anyone was that my doctor (not the surgeon) did indicate some of the significant risks in this surgery. What would be normally low risk procedures are "labeled" high risk because of my prior health and surgical history. His suggestion? I should consider writing letters to any loved ones "just in case".

Fuck. Doesn't he have a way with words? Why not just say, "You're going to die. Say goodbye." I think the look on my face described exactly what I was feeling. Sort of the same feeling a person would feel when they realized that they didn't listen to the Pre-Flight Safety instructions and the plane is going down. The doctor, back peddled and said something about how "it's highly unlikely" that anything could happen.

I got the point. Don't worry, but be a little prepared. Let's hope the surgeon is just as prepared. I hope he practiced as a kid.

I'm not a generally serious person, so the idea of writing letters to the people who mean something to me is difficult. I like making people smile...not cry (unless they are ex's who deserve pain). I don't want to emulate the ending of the movie Terms of Endearment. So what am I supposed to say to people?

How about this?

Dear _____________,

If you are reading this letter, I didn't survive the surgery, or had some complication that means I will not survive.

Oops...My bad.

Patrick

PS -- Your boyfriend? I slept with him. Sorry.

Tomorrow? I'm checking in to my new residence.

NYU Medical Center
550 First Avenue
New York, NY 10016
(212) 263-7300

Hopefully I'll be out by Saturday.

If you actually want to send me snail mail, I do have a PO Box (to prevent stalkers and bill collectors).

Patrick Doyle
PO Box 8409
New York, NY 10150

And if anyone can find out what the hooks in Tunagirl's ceiling are for...I owe you one.

Patrick - 2:20 PM -

Tuesday, September 19, 2006

Testing

This is a test if the emergency Tuna posting system.

Tuna Girl - 10:58 AM -

Monday, September 18, 2006

Manufacturer Defects

With only a few days left before I get physically scarred for life (there goes my chance at being a chest model), I'm in the process of preparing for surgical recovery. The house is cleaned, the air mattress is moved to the living room (so I don't have to climb stairs), and I've sent all my laundry out for pickup on Wednesday. However I still needed one object.

Yesterday, I bought a blender. As of Friday night, I had to switch to a liquid diet. Thus breakfast and lunch today consisted of a freshly heated cup of coffee. Tonight? A smoothie for dinner. So satisfying I could just beat my head in.

Unpacking the most expensive item in my kitchen, I stared at what I perceive to be a useless waste of counter space and read over the instructions and manual. It's a good thing to know that the manufacturer guarantees against defects. And that's what set me off.

Somehow, thanks to the genetics of my family, or the upbringing, or whatever else it is, I'm defective. I've got a manufacture defect and surgery can help, but nothing will ever completely fix the problem. I'll always be "defective", and it makes me a little angry.

Where's my manufacturer's warranty? Why can't I send back a body part for a new one?

Not that I don't count my blessings for still being alive, but I'm tired of it all. I'm tired of drinking 13 liters of water to get my food to my stomach, or having to stop eating in restaurants when I'm out of water, or having to know the exact location of every public restroom at my destination due to how much water I drink. I said a long time ago, I'd do nearly anything to be able to eat a meal without having to drink anything. Unfortunately...it's not in my future.

Anyway...my immediate future involves drinking my dinner.

Let me leave this on a more pleasant note. Food consumption consists of necessary items for health. Carbohydrates, fat, and protein. I figure I can get carbohydrates from pureed fruits, and fat from mixing a little ice cream into the blender.

I wonder where I can get a little liquid protein?

Patrick - 9:24 AM -

Friday, September 15, 2006

I'm Ashamed

Last night, I did a really bad thing. Probably one of the more awful things I've ever done. Something so bad, that it goes nearly against every moral I live my life by.

My day started innocently enough. I worked 1/2 the day, then headed to the hospital for all of my pre-admissions work. I left the hospital, heading back home to change clothes. I wanted to dress nicely for Famous Author Rob Byrnes' book signing party. However something happened that I didn't expect while going home. I grew tremendously hungry and began searching out a quick place to get a bite to eat.

For the first time in my life, I ate a Big Mac Value meal. Do adults actually eat those things? Oh my nutritional hell, that food is awful. I left the fast food restaurant feeling like I had bricks laying in my stomach (a feeling that wouldn't go away for the rest of the night).

Was this the very wrong thing I did? Well normally this would be the issue, but I did something much worse.

At the book signing party, I spoke with many bloggers, current friends and met a few new people. When one of the newer people was about to leave, he did the traditional good bye that gay men do. He gave me a peck on the right cheek, and then moved in to kiss the left cheek as well. However as he made his way to kiss my cheek, he turned my head and kissed me on the mouth...and tried to slip me the tongue!

Now, some of you may not believe this...but I'm not a virgin. I know...it's scary, but true. I couldn't even count the amount of men who've kissed me, but yesterday was a first. The guy who tried to slip me the tongue was a Gay Republican.

****Looks Down in Shame***

I need more mouthwash.

Patrick - 3:25 PM -

Wednesday, September 13, 2006

Where Have I seen this before?

Alright. Poor Tuna has been fielding calls and emails from people asking if I'm ok and what exactly is wrong with me. I know I've been evasive, but it is more out of needing some sort of privacy. Later, when everything is over with, I might be willing to discuss the particulars of my current predicament, but for now...well a little mystery never hurt anyone.

But I'm in the best care insurance can buy, and have researched the particulars of my surgery as much as possible, so I'm fairly confident with how things are going to work out a week from tomorrow. I know each doctor participating in the surgery, where the doctors will be standing, and the position I'll be in.

I will be lying on the table, with my legs in stirrups to insure that I don't develop blood clots. My surgeon will stand between my legs, with an oncologist standing at his left. Down the row will be an orthopedic surgeon and my gastroenterologist. At my head will be the anesthesiologist and on my left will be the surgical assistant.

Now this whole time writing this up, I've been wondering where I've seen this setup before?

Not a work safe image!

That's it. I'll be wearing my underwear while this surgery is taking place. And if they are missing when I come out of anesthesia...I'm not paying.

Seriously though...I really should be ok. People are asking if I need anything. The only thing I'm going to need is something to keep boredom away once I'm released from ~~prison~~ the hospital. Porn, trash television, and other suggestions will be accepted.

Patrick - 3:11 PM -

Tuesday, September 12, 2006

Power Play

I love hockey, but it's one of the only sports I don't like to play. I find the game fascinating except for the immense on-ice fighting (which I find poor sportsmanship) that often happens.

One of my favorite parts is when the famed "power play" is put into effect. This happens when one team loses players to the penalty box for a set time and is playing with less players. The full strength team has power over the weaker team.

Walking home last night, I did a little self reflection. Seriously, what else can you do walking in Central Park at 11 pm? It was during this time, as I thought about what I had done earlier that I realized a little something about myself. When I'm feeling powerless, or controlled, I almost always slip into my "lawyer mode". It was a form of aggressive questioning and answering that I learned while taking a law course during my undergraduate years.

Usually this mode is prefaced by about 24 hours of rehearsed arguments in my head, which was how I prepared for my Doctor's Appointment yesterday. In this shower yesterday morning, my arguments were with the shower head.

"So, what brings you here today?" the shower head playing (the role of my doctor) asked.
"You requested this appointment. Maybe you should read your chart notes?" I answered.
"Ok. How was your meeting with the surgeon?" He asked.
"All five minutes of it were fine. He referred me to several other doctors though, each who gave me a digital exam. Apparently swallowing difficulties are diagnosed by sticking a finger up a patient's ass. Either that, or I'm just really lucky." I snipped.

We all do this. We all have rehearsed conversations in hopes of using them. For me though, I use them at my disposal. That means, I'll guide the conversation until the intended victim walks right into that script. At that point, the attack is made.

Yesterday while walking home, I smiled for the first time in a while. I had been feeling powerless over everything in my healthcare situation, and thus laying into my doctor just gave me a little control of everything again.

So I'm smiling today...But Thursday I've got one of my final appointments with the attending resident at the hospital for pre admission to the hospital. This has been an argument I've rehearsed for almost 4 weeks.

God help him!

Patrick - 4:00 PM -

Friday, September 08, 2006

How Long is too Long?

At times, I am a very organized person. I hate disorganization, especially when it comes to customer service. It's what's been pissing me off most regarding the healthcare I've been receiveing. None of these doctors are willing to communicate with each other.

Yesterday was my day of dread. It's the day that all sexually active gay men hate, the day we get "tested". I usually get tested every 6 months just to make sure (not that I always need tested! I'm not that much of a whore). However I am a child of the 80's, and fully remember the hell of AIDS discrimination, so I will only get tested anonymously.

In other states, this isn't a problem, but here in NY, the only legal anonymous testing clinics are at the health department. Thus, I had to drag myself over to the closest one (located in Chelsea) and check in. It's a walk-in clinic, and they offer the rapid test (which takes only 20 minutes to get the results) so I figured I could get the test done fairly quickly.

I was wrong.

Upon arriving, I checked in at the counter and was asked by the receptionist as to what test I wanted done. He pointed at a card that listed the STD's on it and asked I point out my concerns. I pointed to the three letter bane of my existence and he said "Are you sure there isn't anything else you want done?"

***blank stare***

Just what kind of whore does this guy think I am? He gives me a card, tells me not to fill out the personal information, and sends me to the waiting room. A room filled with 36 people. I scan the room for open seats.

Seat number one: Next to a woman wearing a gold metallic mini skirt and high heels.
Seat number two: Between two very good looking gay guys, both who work out quite often.
Seat number three: In the corner.

I choose seat number two, because any chance I have to cruise a cute guy, let alone two...well I'm taking it. I don't care if it's in a STD clinic! Both guys are filling out their cards, so I take a peek as they are writing their information. The guy on my right is hot. Muscular, around my age, and has great arms. On his card, I can see he is checking off that he wants an HIV test, and that currently he is experiencing a buring sensation while he urinates. Uhhh...huh....next!

I turn to instead cruise the guy on my left. His card says that he's recently seen lesions on his groin area.

Both guys are now off my list.

Catholics have this weird belief that you can die, and deserve heaven, but since you didn't have a recent confession, you are doomed to stay in a place called Purgatory for a set amount on time to work off your sins. After a few million years or so, you go to heaven. Folks...I've been to Purgatory. It's called the health department's STD clinic.

I waited nearly 3 hours until they finally called my number. By that point, I could have had sex with the burning sensation boy, contracted what ever he had, and still had time to get lunch before they would have called me. Finally though, they called my number and took me into the room for the "pre-counseling" session.

Now I used to do this job when I lived in Colorado. I know the questions by heart, and I can take blood for the test. Now, blood draws are not necessary (saliva works), so the test is much easier. I gave her my card which said "ANONYMOUS", and she told me to have a seat again, as only one person does the anonymous tests.

An hour later, I lost it. I walked out and figured I'll just pay for a test at a confidential clinic and give a fake name. But this whole thing has got me thinking.

Years ago, people were afraid to get tested because of the stigma, or because they looked at it as a death sentence. We as counselors were to work very hard to prevent someone from offing themselves if they tested positive. Hell, only about 70% of the people who tested came back for their results a week later.

Now, I wonder how many people don't get tested because it just isn't convenient. How long would you be willing to wait, or would you just put it off until "later" which never does seem to arrive. What's wrong with this situation?

Patrick - 3:24 PM -

Wednesday, September 06, 2006

What Would Freud Say?

Honest...This is a bacon wrapped hot dog.

Patrick - 4:30 PM -

Tuesday, September 05, 2006

Sentimental Journey

When I was first preparing to move from Cleveland, I knew I was going to have to sell or throw away the majority of my belongings. Fairly traumatic, as most everything I owned had such sentimental meaning, but I didn't have any options. However, I did keep a few things and take them with me to the Cape.

A year ago yesterday I had lost one of my more sentimental attachments. I searched the house I was staying in when I realized it was missing, but couldn't find it. When I moved to New York, I searched again, thinking I might have placed it one of the boxes, but didn't find anything then.

This past weekend, seeing it was the anniversary of when I lost it, I searched the few boxes I have, and alas...it's gone. Cest' la vie, live and learn, life goes on. Shit!

This whole experience has got me thinking though. Why do we attach such sentimental value to "things". Sentimental objects are really nothing more than objects attached to a pleasant thought or feeling. Are we so afraid of losing our memories that we have to keep the object to remind us? Or by keeping the object, do we only hope that we can attain that feeling or experience one more time?

If it's the latter, then the point is moot. We can't relive the past, and the events and experiences are unattainable. Sort of like your first time, you can't have it again. For me, all I have left of the object I lost is the memory. Still...I miss the object it represented.

Patrick - 3:00 PM -

Friday, September 01, 2006

Variety is the Spice of Life

Every year I go to GLBT Pride for several reasons. It's a way of meeting people I may never get to see during the year, find new organizations to join, but I've got a primary ulterior motive.

The Free Condoms!
Why is it that a circular piece of latex that is only around 10 inches long cost so much? Now I'm broke, but I'm not so broke that I'd go without and use say...a sandwich bag, although I will admit I did experiment a bit when I was 14 with a boyfriend. (Who knew lunchtime in middle school could be so fun?) So I have to improvise at times.

That means going to pride fest and grabbing as many of the suckers as I can. Any particular brand??? Doesn't matter...I was raised by a depression grandmother! You're just lucky I'm not reusing them. My usually take during Pridefest is about 3 or 4 dozen. That usually tides me over until my birthday...where I treat myself to a large purchase. And that purchase is usually done in the grocery store.

Imagine my dismay this year though, realizing that not many condoms were to be passed out at NYC pride, and even more worse, grocery stores don't carry condoms. In fact, the only places that carry condoms are drug stores and corner deli stores. I didn't even think about it until July, when I ran out.

I was on a date with "Mr. You'll Do" (which is better than "Mr. What's Your Name Again") and he suggested we go back to my place to play with an erector set. We got back, and as things progressed, I reached into my special condom holder (an old shoe box) and nothing was to be had. An empty box (except for a large bottle of lube), and at a critical point in the evening. Luckily, the 24 hour deli is just down the street.

I debated leaving my friend in my apartment while I went to get supplies, but I saw the way he was eying the lube and touching himself, and immediately told him to come with me. We both uncomfortably got dressed (Why are my jeans tight when I don't want them to be?) and walked very quickly down to the deli.

Now Abu, the deli owner, likes to keep the condoms behind the counter. We approached the man, and while trying to maintain my dignity, I asked him for a package of condoms.

"Ahh...my friend. The two of you want to boo-boom! What kind do you want?" He asked.
"What kind do you have?" I asked.
"These are unlubricated..."
"NO!" my future boyfriend barked.
"Not to worry my friend...I have grease." as the shop owner pointed to the Crisco.
"What else do you have?" I asked.
Looking at my friend, "Would you like mint?"
My friend rolled his eyes.
"I have extra large"
"We don't" glared my friend. (I secretly planned to kill him at that moment).
"Would you like ribbed?"
"Yes" I stated, thinking about the extra-large comment.
"That will be 8 dollars" the shop owner said.

I paid and we took our package back to my apartment to place...well on my package. Eight dollars bought me 3 condoms, and that isn't nearly enough when you are getting to know someone. That's one night!

So what did I learn from this experience?

Buy in bulk.
Always check the box before going out of the house.
The deli shop guy knows too much about me.

Patrick - 10:25 AM -