Waiting to Get There. Usually on the A/C/E in Chelsea, New York City.

Tom received a new pair of underpants for Valentines Day. I purchased him an organic fabric contraption called " The Woodie ." The selling point for me was The Woodie's alleged softness and high quality stitchery.  The Woodie Until Tom came out of the shower sporting The Woodie, I was unaware that its architecture included a penis compartment. I don't mean a penis alcove or a penis corner. I mean a separate room dedicated to entirely to the penis.  Tom was a little leery of the full-featured nature of The Woodie. He considered how the whole operation would fit into his jeans and spent more time than usual tucking and jiggling. He talked at length about left sides and right sides and his general expectations for The Woodie's imminent field test, otherwise known as "Thursday." All day, I waited eagerly to hear how The Woodie fared. Regrettably, the investigative reporting proved sparse. Principally, Tom described his field test methodolog

que la vida es un carnaval! Most trips down the road to Damascus begin with a groupon for salsa lessons. It is a fact that Tom and I can make Jesus cry with our love of the dance, but only so long as we score a deep discount vis-á-vis industrious online shopping very late at night. At our first class, I received perhaps the finest left-handed compliment ever when our wiry instructor Oscar noted, "Even with all your weird little kicks, you still manage to stay on the beat." Tom on the other hand was turning regular DVDs into Bluerays with his grace and style. Oscar couldn't take his eyes off him. Tom is a star in Chelsea. Taking the Salsa in our 'hood involves certain complexities namely there are no "gentlemen" and "ladies." There are "leaders" and "followers" and whenever the teacher bellows "Switch partners!" you have to scurry around trying to remember who is eligible for the job. The salsa class demograph