Today, I was discussing gender differences with my young playboys and playgirls in training. One playboy explained that men are good at some things, and girls are good at other things.

"What's an example of something boys are good at?" I asked.

"Wood," he answered.

Well, I had another hot date last night. This time, with A, who never leaves a girl wanting more. We had drinks (she bought), and then lounged at the Charles, waiting to see "The Lives of Others" or as I call it "So That's What the 80s Looked Like in East Germany. A Whole Movie's Worth. Sweet."


As A and I lounged, we gabbed about movies and music and books, because we are the same person in those regards. A reminded me that she'd seen Chris Cornell recently. I said, "Oh the guy from Alice in Chains?"


And she said, "No, that's Lane Staley. Chris Cornell was from SoundGarden."


And I said, "Oh, yeah...They're both hot. I'd love to be in a Chris Cornell/Lane Staley sandwich. That would be one rocking sandwich."


And then I realized that I'd said the most dumb ass thing of my life.

Back in the Saddle Again

Well, I apparently have a new reader. Hello friend of my sister! Please leave vitriolic comments!

Well, sad to report that Robin and I broke up. This means that I am BACK IN THE SADDLE AGAIN.

My first gallop around the park -so to speak- was last night with a gentlemen of the "rather older" persuasion. Thirty seven is the new twenty nine, they say (or at least say those who aren't good at math). It went... Ummmm. It went....It went. Good looking, well employed, emotionally available, logistically suitable, intrigued by yours truly. Obviously, I called it off.

You can't ignore your gut. Which is why I eat a lot of cake.

Speaking of: I lost 0.8 lbs this week.

You win some; you lose some.

Well, I haven't posted for awhile due to general laziness and malaise, but now I have returned from holiday (a trip to Cabo San Lucas, MX) with a new lease on life. Well, it's more like with a slight rash, two masks made from coconut shells, and slightly tanned feet. Which is pretty much as close to a new lease on life as we Petards get, really.

Speaking of new leases on life, tomorrow I'm being baptized and confirmed into the Catholic church. In this time of preparation, I have been admonished over and over

not to repent of my sins

or to pray for grace

or to savor the experience

but to make sure I wear black from head to toe with BLACK NYLONS because they don't hold water like tights do. (I'm being baptized in a kiddie Jacuzzi.)

The sad thing is if I DON'T wear black stockings, instead of repenting, praying, or savoring, my inner rebel will be mumbling things like "stick it, weird R.C.I.A. guy who is so very interested in ladies footwear."

It's a good and timely reminder, though, to keep my own council, which would advise, I think, "bare skin doesn't hold water at all. And if my fish belly white legs (made ever so less so by the aforementioned vacation) have not offended God so far, maybe He won't mind seeing them one more time."

Va va voom. The girl's got gams.