Sid Stein Preps For His Colonoscopy and Grosses Everyone Out

I turned 50 this past year. And, when I went for my annual physical, my doctor recommended what I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear. He wanted me to get a colonoscopy. So it goes.

I made an appointment with the colorectal surgeon who was recommended by my doctor. The appointment was unremarkable but I did get to meet the man who would be examining the inside of my ass. Nice guy too. They also scheduled me for the procedure for the Friday morning before Thanksgiving. Assuming all went well, I would have something additional to be thankful for.

In case you are unfamiliar with colonoscopies, those who have undergone one will tell you that the “prep” in advance of the actual procedure is the worst part. In contrast, the people who have never had one usually suffer a lot of anxiety over the thought of a scope being inserted far up their butt. What they don’t realize is that the anesthesia is so powerful, that during the procedure, they won’t even realize or remember that some guy they probably met only once is looking up their ass for polyps, gerbil skeletons and toy cars. As it turns out, the “prep” really is the worst part. It goes like this. If you are scheduled for a Friday morning colonoscopy, you have your last real meal on Wednesday night. After midnight, you are restricted to liquids and a concoction of laxatives, followed by about seven hours of shitting your brains out.

Faced with the prospect of a last supper followed by a day of just liquids, I decided I should make my last meal a good one. I decided to go to Barcelona’s where I knew my father would be hanging out with his friends. I also thought it would be a good place to get some sympathy since most of the patrons are well older than I am and probably have all had colonoscopies themselves. http://www.barcelona-albany.com/

As I sauntered in and greeted the people I knew, I espied my father at the far end of the bar talking to a couple I have known for quite a few years. After catching up a bit with Dad, I announced that I had come for my last solid food before my colonoscopy. I was soon treated to the medical histories of my father and the couple he was talking with. I thought to myself – Awesome! After worrying about it by myself, or talking about it with my daughter or others who had never undergone a colonoscopy, I suddenly no longer felt alone in the world. How very refreshing, I thought. I even told them how good it was to be able to discuss my impending procedure with other people experienced in the way of colon invasions. They all immediately understood and emphasized the importance of spending time with old people, even though they didn’t phrase it quite that way.

There’s something you should know about Sid Stein and the way he interacts with Albany area residents. After publishing my book, “A Little on the Side – The Married Man’s Ultimate Guide to Cheating or How to Save Your Marriage,” people expect me to be somewhat outrageous with my humor. I wouldn’t exactly call it a burden, but when I am out and about, I always get the feeling that people expect me to make them laugh and roll their eyes at the same time. So, I do my best to indulge them, especially when I have the proper fodder for the humor mill.
While everyone was laughing at my colon jokes, my father took credit for my sense of humor. I commented that it had skipped a generation. It was fairly easy making a few jokes about colonoscopies, gerbil skeletons and the like. You can find some of the jokes on Google. They are a bit half-assed, but some are cute. Then, just as I was running out of material, Patty walked over. Patty is a sweet and petite Irish gal (my father likes to call them gals) who is about my age.

Patty is a quiet and reserved woman who never seems to have a steady boyfriend. As far as I can tell, the only constant in her life is her friendship with Max, a short, cute old man in his eighties. Max is quite remarkable. Sometime after he was widowed, he took up skydiving and was even featured in the local newspaper. He has over 100 jumps. Max likes to go out, chat with people and drink wine. He especially enjoys the company of Patty, who escorts him around town to various bars. Although I am quite convinced that there is no sexual component to their relationship, it is pretty clear that Max adores Patty and cherishes their friendship. And why shouldn’t he?

It’s clear that Patty enjoys Max’s company as well. He is the definition of a gentleman. No doubt he also buys her drinks, at least now and then. However, if there is one liability to Patty’s friendship with Max, it’s that some people, at least in jest, ask her if she is romantically connected to Max. I didn’t actually learn about this kink in Patty’s life until that very night at Barcelona’s. A while after Patty had joined us, I commented that Max looked lonely at the other end of the bar and must be missing his girlfriend. Patty’s reaction was immediate and took me by surprise. Indignantly, she forcefully denied that there was anything between her and Max. “I am not his girlfriend!” WHOA! Who knew?

Well, after getting such a strong reaction, there was no way I could drop it. I had already enjoyed a plate of chicken vodka and a few vodkas to wash it down. So, I said to Patty, “Come on, Patty, everyone knows that Max is in love with you. He adores you, not to mention you two are inseparable.” Patty was turning red, half from embarrassment and half from getting her Irish up. “There is nothing between me and Max,” she insisted. “We are just good friends!” “Who are you kidding?” I continued. “I can tell when someone is in love, and Max is clearly in love. Look how he is pining for you at the other end of the bar.” Patty glared at me. “Max is not in love with me. We are just good friends.” “Be serious, Patty,” I said. “No doubt Max hires some guy to masturbate for him while he fantasizes about you.”

Oops! I guess I went a little too far. I looked at my father who was now as red as Patty. Totally embarrassed. Poor guy. He commented to his other friends listening to the exchange between Patty and me that I get my sense of humor from my mother’s side of the family. Disavowed by my own father!

Oh, by the way. The colonoscopy went fine.

Sid Stein's Dog Has A Date

When my wife and I split up, she got the kids and I got the dog. Granted, the dog is a beautiful golden retriever, but she is not the best conversationalist. You might think that my ex-wife had the greater custodial burden, but in reality, such was not the case. My eldest, a son, was graduating from college, a daughter was in her sophomore year, another daughter was completing high school and heading to Israel for a year abroad, and the youngest had decided to go to high school there and was living with her aunt in Jerusalem. The dog, on the other hand, was going nowhere.

Everyone knows that dogs are a man’s best friend, and in one sense, this is true. My dog, Buffy, is a loyal and trusted friend (in case you are wondering, she really was named after Buffy the Vampire Slayer, a popular show when we got her. Besides, Sarah Michelle Gellar, who played Buffy in the series, is blonde and Jewish, like my dog, and I wanted to provide my three daughters with a strong female role model). My Buffy is very affectionate and enthusiastically bestows upon all my friends extremely warm welcomes whenever they come visit. She has skills too. She is an accomplished Frisbee canine. At the ripe old age of eight, her spectacular catches could still make a highlight reel on Sportscenter. And, as I am writing this, she is using her Frisbee as a pillow. That’s true commitment.

As good a friend as Buffy is, at times, she can be a burden. Unlike my grown children, I cannot leave Buffy alone for the weekend. And no, it’s not because I am afraid she’ll throw a big, loud party. Friends have asked me to consider putting her in a kennel, but if you knew Buffy, you couldn’t imprison her like that either. On occasion, I have left her with my parents, but they don’t always have the patience for her. Other times, when one of my kids is home, I can set off for the weekend with a clear conscience.

So, it happened one Thursday when on was on J-Date, the Jewish dating site, that I had a conversation with a woman named Anna who lived in Manhattan. She seemed very nice and the conversation went well. No doubt there was a little flirting and we ended our chat on good terms with the intention of chatting again.

The follow up chat came soon - the day after. Based on the tenor of the conversation, Anna was clearly anxious to meet me, even overanxious, in retrospect. Although she was at work, she apparently had plenty of time to chat with me. It makes me wonder how much American productivity is lost because people are pursuing romance at their desks on their computers. That, however, is not my problem. Before too long, Anna proposed that I visit her in Manhattan. And, here is Part I of just how overanxious Anna was. She wanted me to come down that very evening. How desperate was she for male companionship? Even though she wasn’t a great beauty, she was nice looking. Why couldn’t she find someone in New York City? I mean, how many millions of men live there? On the other hand, what would prevent me from taking the 2 ½ hour trip? In a word - Buffy.

I considered the possibility that I was using Buffy as an excuse not to go. After all, parents commonly use their kids as excuses to get out of all kinds of sticky situations. I could have asked my parents if they could watch Buffy for the weekend, but I didn’t. I might have felt that Anna was just too anxious to invite me to stay at her place after only two conversations with me. On the other hand, what was wrong with a woman wanting so much to meet me? That level of enthusiasm usually meant one thing. Sex. And what’s wrong with sex?

I explained to Anna that I would love to visit her but was saddled with a golden retriever for the weekend. I figured that would end the issue but Anna suggested a solution. Bring Buffy! Bring Buffy? Was she kidding me? This woman really wanted me to bring my dog on a date? Apparently. She also had a dog, Bongo, and thought it would be nice for all four of us. In case you’re counting, that’s twelve legs altogether.

I weighed Anna’s proposal. On the one hand, I had never taken Buffy away from home (except once) unless it was to my parents’ house. More importantly, Buffy is scared of other dogs, even little ones. There is a story, or rather a theory, with that too. When Buffy was still very young, we left her for about a week with a veterinarian who was a parent at my children’s school. The vet lived on a farm of sorts, so we thought Buffy would be safe and secure. Well, ever since that time on the farm, Buffy has been afraid of dogs. My theory? Buffy was molested by the veterinarian’s dog, Joe. I know. Paw and Order – Special Victims’ Unit. Since Buffy isn’t talking, which is often the case with rape victims, I don’t absolutely know for sure. I told Anna about Buffy’s fear of dogs, but Anna reassured me that Bongo was a very social, easygoing small dog. She added that she lived on the Upper West Side near Riverside Park which has a great dog park. And, if we got there before 9:00 a.m., we could let the dogs off the leash. To make it even nicer, she said we could even take the dogs for a stroll in Central Park. It sounded like a dog-friendly invitation with the potential for sex for me, so I thought about it some more and said – why not? It might even be fun. I accepted.

Since the date was going to involve dogs, I didn’t think it was necessary to make complicated clothing decisions. I would wear nice, clean clothes. I already had everything I needed for Buffy and just had to make arrangements for someone to check in on Monk, my cat, or rather, the cat my son left me when he no longer could care for him. In case you are wondering, Buffy and Monk get along together quite well. So, I called my Dad who agreed to stop in just to make sure Monk was fine. In short order, I packed the car with my clothes and Buffy’s food and accessories, and off we went.

The trip down to Manhattan was uneventful. Buffy and I stopped at the Ramapo rest area for well, a rest stop. It wasn’t long before we made our way across the George Washington Bridge onto the West Side Highway and into the City. Buffy was in New York! As might be expected, it took a while to find a parking spot near Anna’s apartment building, but find one I did. If you are familiar with New York, then you know that most streets and avenues are one-way. For car enthusiasts, it means that, like me that night, you might be parking on the left side of the street. Why is that important? Well, I own a two-door car, so when parking on the left side of the street, the passenger door opens onto the street side of the car rather than the sidewalk. And, as it goes, that’s the door I have to use to get Buffy out of the back seat. So, as cars are whizzing by, I opened the door and fastened the leash to the collar of a dog who was very anxious to get out for some fresh air (I know, fresh air?) And how anxious was Buffy to indulge in all the news smells of the Big Apple? Well, as soon as she could, she bolted out of the car right into traffic. Whoa, Buffy! I yanked her to safety in the nick of time. Buffy in New York was getting off to a great start.
Anna lived in the West 70’s and I gave her a call as soon as Buffy settled down a bit. Although I had Anna’s address, I had to park around the corner and felt lucky that I found a parking space as close as I did. Anna met us at the car and immediately pointed out that my parking space was only good until 7 a.m. The three of us hopped into the car and searched for another spot. After about 20 minutes, voila! At least the additional time gave me a chance to chat with Anna. She seemed very sweet.

Unfamiliar with all the sights, sounds and smells of the city, Buffy was pulling me all over the place, so Anna offered to help with my bag and dog supplies. Polite too! I suspected Buffy needed to pee but she apparently was too distracted to consider the needs of her bladder. We entered Anna’s building and entered the elevator. Buffy’s first elevator ride! I worried that Buffy would pee in the elevator but she maintained bladder control. Good dog!

I was most worried about the next part in Buffy’s New York City adventure – meeting Bongo. Anna reassured me that Bongo was very friendly and would welcome Buffy with open paws. In fact, Bongo was exuberant and chased Buffy around Anna’s apartment. Fortunately, the dogs settled down within a few minutes giving Anna and I a chance to get to know one another. It also gave me a good chance to finally get a look at her. She was pleasant looking if not a real beauty. I was thinking a couple of glasses of wine would improve the picture considerably.
And wine was served! After we straightened out the confusion between the dog food (Bongo was eating from Buffy’s bowl), Anna and I sat down to a lovely dinner. She didn’t cook it herself, but had it delivered. Delivery is big in Manhattan. You can get anything you want from just about anywhere.

After dinner, Anna and I took our dogs for a walk. We went to Central Park where Buffy enjoyed sniffing around the fallen leaves in the nippy winter air. She relieved herself and I was relieved. Who knew you could stroll around Central Park at night?

Anna, Bongo, Buffy and I made our way back to the apartment. Anna brought out some more wine which we enjoyed on her sofa. The dogs were quiet, the lights were dim and soon enough, Anna became amorous. I responded positively.

It wasn’t long before Anna led me to her bedroom. Even though it was already clear to me that my relationship with Anna wasn’t going to last long, she was nice but not intriguing in any way, pleasant –looking but not pretty, I still had no problem accepting her invitation. Hey, I’m a guy and guys are dogs, right? And it was, in part, anyway, a dog event.

Whether she just hadn’t been with a man in a while, or whether she simply was sexually enthusiastic, Anna’s approach to lovemaking was energetic. So there I am, in bed with Anna, thinking that my trip to New York was turning out okay. I don’t think either of us had much hope for the future of our relationship, but at least we were doing our best to have a good time with each other.

As a person who enjoys metaphors and looks for themes in life, I flipped Anna over and made love to her doggy-style. It made sense to me at the time. And in keeping with the spirit of the evening, I thought it would be nice to pay Anna a compliment during coitus. I commented that she had a nice ass. After all, that’s what I was faced with. To be honest, it wasn’t the best ass I have ever seen, but it was within the parameters of nice asses as asses go. I thought that would be the end of it, but Anna’s response surprised me.

I know, at this point I should be ready for just about anything, especially if you have read my story about why I think women should come with warning labels. Notwithstanding my prior experience with sexual surprises, I still wasn’t ready for the words which flowed effortlessly from Anna’s mouth. She said: “It should look good considering all the plastic surgery I had after my bariatric procedure.”

Bariatric procedure? What the hell was that? As smart as I think I am, dear readers, I just didn’t know. Clueless! My etymological instincts kicked in as I racked my brain for a definition. The only thing that came to mind was a barium enema. We were doing it doggy-style, after all. But why would she be talking about enemas during sex? And, as much as I knew that a barium enema is not the same as your friendly neighborhood Fleet enema, it still conjured up images of feces flooding out her ass. What kind of dirty talk was that? (For any woman reading this, the purpose of talking dirty in bed is to turn a guy on, not off.) So, with thoughts of shit invading my mind, I quickly lost interest in any more sex. I know. It was a doggy weekend and dogs love smelling shit. Perhaps, but that still doesn’t make me a canine, even if I am a dog.

Somehow, I recovered sufficiently to finish the act and we soon went to sleep. At least I did. I actually had a good reason to get some shut-eye, above and beyond recovering from my psychic trauma. Anna wanted to wake up early so that we could take the dogs to Riverside Park before 9 a.m. so that we could let our dogs run free.

Saturday morning came and off we went to the park, dogs in tow. We arrived to discover lots of dogs running around having fun. I let Buffy off the leash, threw her Frisbee and Buffy was transformed. She was finally having fun in the Big Apple. Fortunately, Bongo was not a Frisbee dog, so Buffy didn’t have to worry about some Upper West Side pooch stealing her favorite toy.

After about an hour and a half, it was time to return home, and return home I did. I manufactured some lame excuse about why I had to get back to Albany (probably using my kids as an excuse) and after a polite goodbye and a sincere thank you, I loaded Buffy into the car and returned to Albany. As soon as I got in, I googled bariatric procedures. Anna had her stomach stapled. At some point, she must have been a very big girl. At least she wasn’t a dog.

And, although things didn’t work out for me and Anna, Buffy ended up having one great date.

(Buffy visits the Guggenheim)

Sid Stein's Greek Tragedy

I recently visited an Italian restaurant with a Spanish name owned by Mexicans so I could hang out with my Jewish father who is a friend of the Irish bartender. It’s a very good restaurant and has a lively bar crowd even if most of the patrons are older than I. The “colonoscopied” crowd can have fun too. So, I am sitting at the bar, catching up with my father, when I asked him if he heard that Dino, owner of the Gateway, one of Albany’s better known Greek diners, had passed away the day before. Surprisingly, my father, who I thought knew every notable person in Albany, had never heard of him. I had met Dino years earlier through a friend who managed one of the city’s premier discos. Dino, who wore his hair like Elvis, had financed the disco. Greek diner money, apparently. http://www.gatewaydiner.com/

As fate would have it, my father pointed out that another Greek diner owner was having dinner in the restaurant. I had been to his diner a few months earlier and had the worst egg salad sandwich I had ever been served. My father advised that I should tell him about my poor dining, or should I say diner, experience.

I continued chatting with my father. Before long, Nick, the Gateway’s competitor, came over to say hello. However, rather than bring up the egg salad sandwich, I mentioned that I had read that Dino had passed away. I know that the Greek community in Albany is very tight-knit and figured that Nick was an acquaintance of Dino. Nick noted it was sad that Dino had died and told me that he offered to sing at the funeral service. Apparently, Nick is quite a good singer, at least in Greek. The family declined Nick’s offer for reasons I can only guess. Maybe some resentment exists among the various Greek diner families. Whatever the reason was, Nick continued and told me in his heavy Greek accent that a number of people had already approached him and asked if he would be taking over the Gateway. Nick then looked at me, shrugged his shoulders, and in complete innocence, asked me why anyone would think that he might take over the Gateway Diner. Sensing an opportunity, I looked Nick in the eye and responded: “Hey Nick, maybe because you’re Greek and you already own a diner.” I never brought up the egg salad sandwich.

Sid Stein's Condom Cat

I love to cook. It engages my artistic nature and releases my creative energies. For the most part, I prepare my meals on the stove rather than in the oven. I enjoy adjusting the flavors and spices as I go along and love being able to watch how my dish progresses. On the other hand, baking or preparing dinner in the oven is primarily a “wait until it’s done” affair. Once the food is in the oven, there is little to do except listen for the timer to buzz me when it’s done. However, in spite of my cooking preferences, there are simply some things that require a working oven. Making Thanksgiving is one of them. I mean, have you ever tried cooking a 15 pound turkey in a skillet? It takes forever. I assume it does anyway.

During my marriage to my Israeli-born wife, Thanksgiving became my responsibility. To her credit, she prepared all the meals for the Jewish holidays, of which there are many throughout the year. For a time, she even made Thanksgiving but ceded the meal to me at some point. I embraced the challenge and was soon making turkey, ginger chestnut stuffing, black bean soup, sweet potatoes, cranberry sauce and apple and pumpkin pies. Before long, we had a family tradition.

Life changed after my wife and I split up but Thanksgiving was still mine. It says so in my agreement. After all, I was the American in the household and had a natural duty to protect the integrity of this national holiday.

The first Thanksgiving in my new home went well even though we were missing one daughter who was studying in Israel. Even my ex-wife came. The food was delicious and it was a happy event. Last year, however, I was unable to make Thanksgiving. At some point during the year before the holiday, the thermostat in my oven broke. Without a way to control the temperature, there was no way I could roast a turkey or make an apple pie. It didn’t matter too much because most of my children were in Israel anyway. So, instead of a big dinner at my house, my parents and I, accompanied by my one daughter who was still in the country, ate our Thanksgiving dinner at Jack’s, one of Albany’s oldest and finest restaurants. http://www.jacksoysterhouse.com/

For a long time, not having an oven didn’t bother me. I made my meals on the stove and was content with that. This year, however, I wanted Thanksgiving back in my house. I needed to have it here. My 18 year old daughter would be in town and she keeps kosher. Besides, her long-time boyfriend, also kosher, was coming and planning to ask my permission for her hand in marriage. I had two choices. Get my oven repaired or get a new oven. I went with the second option. The house I live in was a rental property for a long time and only had a cheap, simple oven. It was time to upgrade to a respectable cooking machine. So off I went to the local appliance store. http://coccasappliancestv.com/

Mike, an appliance salesman with a friendly face and a very big belly, showed me around the store. He pointed out a scratch and dent model which had been marked down from $1,000.00 to $500.00.
The scratch was on the side of the oven and wouldn’t be seen once installed, so, recognizing a good buy, I bought it. Mike told me that his delivery people wouldn’t be able to install it because it was a gas oven and they no longer carried insurance for installing gas appliances. He suggested I contact a plumber, which I did once the oven was delivered. Although part of my deal with the appliance store included removal of the old oven, the delivery men wouldn’t touch it until it was disconnected from the gas line. I would have to wait for the plumber.




Perhaps you are wondering what this story has to do with a cat or condoms. I’m getting to that. Maybe a few words about my cat are in order before I make the connection. When my eldest daughter graduated from the eighth grade, we bought a golden retriever. Her name is Buffy, after the television show, which was popular at the time. Buffy is a happy dog who likes to play Frisbee. She’s a good catch too. Years passed and my son went off to college. In his senior year, he bought a kitten and named him Monk after the jazz musician. As circumstances would have it, my son had to move into the dorms for his final semester because his friends with whom he shared an apartment had to move out. He asked me if I would take care of his cat. Buffy, who was about 6 ½ years old at this point, had never lived with any other animals and had never liked other dogs. I told him I would give it a try. At first, Buffy and Monk were like oil and water. In fact, I had to keep them separated. One morning, however, I woke up to find Buffy sitting by the door to the laundry room. I went to the kitchen to make coffee and realized that Buffy hadn’t budged. It seemed unusual to me, so I went over and asked her if she was okay. And no, I wasn’t expecting an answer. Still, I was curious as to why she was sitting there so patiently. So, I opened the door and out walked Monk. Apparently, I had locked Monk out of the house. As Monk sauntered into the house, he went over and rubbed up against Buffy, seeming to thank her for coming to his rescue. They became fast friends after that, and now, even play together.

Monk is a curious and sometimes naughty cat. He especially likes to knock things off counters and tables. Although he sometimes does this to get my attention when he is hungry, there are other times he does it for no apparent reason. My daughter thinks it’s his concept of feng shui because he usually knocks things off which don’t necessarily belong. He also loves to bat things around the kitchen floor.







So, it was no great surprise when the plumber pulled out the old stove revealing a number of things which Monk had batted underneath it. There was a toy car, a couple of caps from Snapple bottles, a red pen and two condoms. Actually, I was surprised to see the condoms. Momentarily, I thought about being embarrassed by this discovery, but hey, it was just the plumber and why should I care if he learned about my social life. Still, how did condoms get under my stove? And, they weren’t even my regular brand! I picked them up and examined them. I found two small pinpricks in one of them. Monk! Apparently, Monk snagged them out of my bedroom and brought them into the kitchen so he could bat them around the smooth kitchen floor. At some point, as with everything he plays with, they ended up under the stove.



















As easy as it was to figure out how the condoms got there, I was left with one mystery. These were Durex condoms, not Trojans. http://www.trojancondoms.com/For the life of me, I cannot remember ever buying Durex condoms. Was it possible I picked them up while out one night at a club? It would have had to have been a gay bar. If it was, what was I doing in a gay bar? And why would I need condoms there? I am still straight as I am sure you know by now if you have been reading my stories. It remains a mystery. I know one thing though. Monk didn’t buy them. But, there is no denying. He is the Condom Cat. Or should that be Condom Kitty? Prophylactic Feline? Maybe he heard about feline AIDS. Curious but cautious!

After I wrote this, a friend added that Monk's adventure gives a new meaning to Cat in the Hat!