My Next Boyfriend Part 2 (Electric Boogaloo!)

After hearing the news that President-elect Obama is kind of a picky eater, I decided to update my list of what my next boyfriend will be.

My next boyfriend will NOT be a picky eater!!!!!

I hate men who are picky eaters yet I always seem to end up with them. They are no fun to go out to eat with. And forget about cooking for them!

My ex-husband wouldn't touch seafood. There he sat at some of the finest seafood joints the West Coast had to offer... eating steak. He couldn't even get that one right because he ordered it well done. Ugh! Why not just chew on a leather shoe?

My live-in ex-boyfriend had issues with his food touching. He would order Chinese food but eat the rice separately. I once bought him one of those plates for little kids with the separate compartments. My joke went awry when he actually started using it.

My favorite was a guy that I once went on a date with to a Mexican restaurant. I noticed he barely touched his meal so I asked if everything tasted okay. He said that he was upset about his choice of a chicken and cheese quesadilla. What were all these pesky peppers and onions doing in it? His bright idea was that is should have been advertised as a chicken, cheese, onion and pepper quesadilla. False advertising, dammit!

Did I mention that was our first and only date?

I am not a picky eater (the size of my hips can attest to this) so men who freak out about food perplex me. I am not fond of either carrot cake or mustard. But if I were a guest at some one's house who served mustard braised chicken followed by carrot cake for desert, I could manage. I will try anything once. Bad Wolf and I once went on a culinary binge at a street fair where we sampled everything from Polish food to cow brain burgers. Desert? Chocolate covered grasshoppers.

Well, except for pickles. Those things are just nasty! If one even touches my sandwich, I consider it tainted. Try as I might to get over this, I still retch at the mere smell of a pickle.

*** I have to give a shout-out to CKD for dredging up the memory of Breakin' 2: Electric Boogaloo from the dark recesses of my mind. Thanks to you, anything second in a series will now be referred to as Electic Boogaloo!

My Next Boyfriend...

Today I read an interesting article on one of my favorite blogs. The gist of the article was to list things that you expect from your future boyfriend by using the bad behavior of past boyfriends. Things like "my next boyfriend is not going to have children" or "will be emotionally available."

** Must be popular... they updated their list**

Ha! Amateurs!

Here's my stab at it:

My next boyfriend...

- will not be so moody as to have mental breakdowns and threaten to commit suicide. (Looking at you, ex-Mr. Roadtripper)

- will know who the US fought in World War II. (Sorry, Joe, but the correct answer is not England. And... no... Hitler still isn't British, you dumb ass!)

- will be able to address problems in the relationship directly and not have to resort to talking through your cat. (And I still think Fleabag is a idiotic name for a feline, Eric Version 1.0)

- will not have to resort to telling war stories about killing people in order to make up for certain... ahem... inadequacies. (Worst pillow talk EVER, L)

- will not secretly try on my dresses and take pictures when I am not home (Sorry to call you out J/R but that one still stings a little bit!)

- will not freak out at the mere sight of a tampon, throw it on the ground in front of our white-water rafting group and shout "I'm not gonna carry your fucking tampons!" (Eric Version 3.0)

- will come up with a better name for his nether regions than his "junk". (Looking at you again, Eric Version 3.0. Note to self: stop dating guys named Eric)

- will not already have a girlfriend who lives in California who he is planning to move across the country to live with him. (Did you really think you were that slick, Maj. Pain?)

Dirtbag Alert: The Pickup Artist

I spent this Sunday trying to regain my sanity after an invasion by out-of-town relatives. Complete sensory overload the last few days led me to loll on the couch and watch my DVR recordings that have been piling up over the last few weeks.

The worst guilty pleasure? The second season of VH-1's "The Pickup Artist". Ladies, arm yourself against stealth attacks by drunken idiots in bars by watching this ridiculous show. There are men out there who actually buy in to this drivel. The show centers on turning lovable geeks with no game in to so-called "ladies' men". Too bad their tutor is a former magician called Mystery who advocates wearing black nail polish, goggles, feather boas and top hats as a way to lure the ladies in. He calls it "peacocking"; I call it "dressing like a moron." Mystery teaches the use of winning opening lines such as:

"Let me ask you a question: Would you ever sleep with a guy named Herman?"
"Hey... did you see the fight outside?" (when there was no fight)

Of course, I will probably just be accused of "negging" him but I declare an official Dirtbag Alert on anything Pickup Artist-related.

Oh yeah... you are so sexy! Hold me back. No, really... hold me back, please.

Want real advice on the art of seduction? Just watch my beloved Jon Hamm's skit on SNL. Sadly, this comedy skit is way sexier than anything that goofy magician could offer up.



Or, perhaps even better, Captain Kirk's Guide to Women:

Lessons Learned This Weekend

- If the tattoo artist you are talking to keeps referencing his cocaine habit, it is perfectly fine to walk out of the studio. I woke up Saturday sans regrets or any shakily drawn ink additions to my body.

- Chivalry is not dead. If a man opens doors for you, he will turn out to be detail-oriented, considerate and attentive in other areas. (Hi mom!)

- Drinking Margaritas and shooting Wild Turkey at a pre-party, washing down your Japanese food with sake and plum wine then playing pool while sipping beer and rum and Cokes is not "a tour around the world via your glass" or "a way to visit Mexico, Kentucky, Japan, St. Louis and Jamaica all in one night"... it is just a good way to feel like crap Sunday morning.

- If a man makes a half-ass promise that you two will "maybe grab a bite to eat Sunday night" after he gets back from Raleigh, don't clear your calender. Go eat dinner with a new girl friend instead and surprise yourself that you hadn't even thought about his empty promise until you got ready for bed that night. Rejoice in the fact that this thought was fleeting and did not ruin your night.

Dirtbag Alert: The Aging Frat Boy

I hated frat boys in college. I only went to their damn parties for the free booze. As I sipped my Pabst Blue Ribbon in a smokey corner surrounded by grunting drones in pukka shell necklaces and Abercrombie cargo shorts, I kept telling myself that someday I would be out in the real world with real men whose life's ambition couldn't be found at the bottom of a beer bong.




Fast forward almost a decade to discover that the guys really haven't changed much. There is a another breed stalking poor unsuspecting women in bars. The Aging Frat Boy still roams in packs. They still tell fart jokes and quote Adam Sandler and Ben Stiller movies with glee. And they still wear those damn pukka shell necklaces and cargo shorts!

But that isn't the worst part. They never reach for their wallets when the bill comes; dates usually end in a half-ass offer to go Dutch. That is, if they even plan an actual date anyways; most of the time it comes down to "Why don't you come over and watch a movie?" (ladies... we all know what that is frat boy-ese for.) When this is all pointed out, they usually fall back on the old stand by of "Well, isn't this what you womens' libbers wanted?" Okay... where is the mens' lib then? If women are becoming more self-sufficient and taking over traditional male roles, why do the men throw temper tantrums and accuse you of emasculation when asked to be more compassionate and caring? I don't want to have to bring home the proverbial bacon, fry it up in the pan and then spend an hour cleaning the kitchen afterward while an aged frat boy sits on the couch playing the latest version of World of Warcraft.

Thanks, but no thanks. Dear Readers... I offer you a glimpse in to my future:

Southern Living Roadtripper Style

FAQs concerning my move to North Carolina:

Q: Have you finished unpacking?

A: I still have some boxes here and there but the bulk of it is done.


Q: How's the new job?

A: Ehhhh. I got thrown a curve ball when I discovered that I was expected to fill a different position than what I was told. Most of the people are nice but my immediate office hasn't exactly rolled out the welcome mat for me. It is full of former infantry guys. Maybe they aren't used to a woman... or maybe they are just dicks.

Q: Have you been to the beach?

A: Not during the day yet but I did manage a nocturnal skinny dip while at an after party last Saturday.

Q: Eaten any good seafood yet?

A: Shrimp burgers, shrimp and grits... I am starting to sound like Bubba Gump here.

Q: Have you met anyone interesting?

A: I may have found myself someone to crush on. And he flirts back!!!!!

Dirtbag Alert: Dante Moore

Dante Moore, a computer engineer who was fed up with being a nerd who got no play from the ladies, has taken it upon himself to write a "help" book for single women. The advice found in "The Re-education of the Female" (ugh... just typing that title made me break out in to hives): Learn how to cook man-friendly meals, do as you're told, stay pleasant and non-confrontational and, above all else, DON'T GET FAT!

Here is a little sample from his manifesto:

"The fatter you get, the more you decrease your potential single-man pool. Let me give you an example. When you go to the grocery store to shop, do you pick out the nastiest-looking, most rotten, smelliest fruit or meat you can find? Oh, you don't? Why not? . . . It's the same with men when they see baby elephant-sized, out-of-shape women."

Even better is:

"Here's a little secret, ladies: men never really ask for anything. They command. . . . And believe me, what you won't do, ten broads around the corner will."

Thank you, Mr. Dante Moore. Reading your vile excuse for advice made me vomit. Looks like I found a new diet plan. Maybe I should pick up a copy of your book, so every time I get the urge to eat, I can just read a passage and completely lose my appetite. Maybe I will lose the will to express my own opinions since I will be so weak from calorie deprivation. Then I can be really skinny and submissive and get a domineering, arrogant douchebag like you for a boyfriend.

Welcome To The Island: Early 90s TV Hunks

Everything old is new again. 90210: The Reboot is about to premiere (Complete with Brenda. Oh yeah... The Bitch is back!) We have seen the return of pegged jeans and crimped hair. New Kids on the Block released their first single since 1994 with an album and tour to follow this autumn. Since early 90s retro is enjoying its minute in the spotlight, I decided to induct some familiar faces from the past on to the island.

Rosie's pick: Brian Austin Green. Yep... little David Silver is all grown up these days.

One condition: NO MORE RAPPING!

My choice, you ask? None other than everyone's favorite guitar-playing uncle who lived in a room with pink bunny wallpaper. Yes, I speak of John Stamos aka Uncle Jesse.

A mullet can't even mar this perfection

But this... yummy!

John Stamos is one of those guys who just gets better looking each year. Sure, he likes to get drunk and babble incoherently on Australian talk shows but who doesn't? He is so hot; he almost makes the Beach Boys look cool when he tours with him... and that is no easy feat.

You are still holding it down well, Uncle Jesse. Rebecca-whatever-the-hell-her-name-is is a moron for dumping you for that fat kid from Stand By Me. You are welcome to the island any day!

Welcome To The Island: Dwayne Johnson

I've had an unnatural crush on Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson for years; and I can place the blame for this squarely on my ex-husband. The ex had a white trash streak that encouraged his love of wrestling. When he turned the TV on for the latest Smackdown or Rumble in the Desert or what-not, I took to throwing myself on the ground and wailing protests. Wrestling is all fake! It is just a sorry excuse for a man's soap opera! It has low production... oh my!... hellllloooo there... who is that bronzed, tattooed god of a man with the wayward eyebrow who keeps talking about him cooking something and laying the smacketh down?

I'm not sure exactly what a "smacketh" is but I think I'll take two right on my candy ass!

Thankfully, my crush had the good sense to high-tail it out of wrestling and start making some movies. Granted, they are usually the type of movies that I hide behind my Masterpiece Theatre DVDs. He might not win an Oscar anytime soon but who cares? The man is great eye candy; and he seems to have a pretty good sense of humor about himself. He can raise that eyebrow at me any day.

Dirtbag Alert: The Angry White Guy Edition

Meet Roy Den Hollander, Angry White Guy

Hollander is currently suing Columbia University for the abolishment their namby-pamby women's studies courses, claiming that it is unconstitutional to use government funds to preach religious beliefs. What religious belief?, you ask. "Feminism"! (His use of apostrophes...not mine). Feminism is now an option for religious preference?... shit... if I'd have known that, I would have had that stamped on my dog tags instead of the boring ol' No Pref.

His other case, where he took on the plight of the poor male who is forced to pay bigger cover charges at clubs on designated ladies' nights, is still pending. In addition to being a douchebag, Mr. Hollander is also a lawyer who specializes in male discrimination cases. His entire law firm is dedicated to "battle the infringement of Men's Rights by the feminists and their allies".

STFU, Mr. Roy Den Hollander!

I have absolutely zero sympathy for The Angry White Guy. All their whining about how minority special interest groups are ruining the world with their liberal agenda. Yeah... it must be really hard for the white man to get by these days. My heart breaks for you all. Not only do men hold the majority in every sector of business, government and industry in this country... but then they have to shell out $10 to get in to a bar. The horror!

What really cracks me up is that ladies' night really is for men anyways. The entire concept of ladies' night it to lure women in to the bar for the guys. Why isn't there a mens' night? Because the men are already there. This isn't a case of discrimination; it is an example of simple capitalism. The demand (created by men) for more women in bars and clubs is met by these establishments creating a lure for women.

The Angry White Guy prides himself on being an old fashioned, take-charge, no bullshit type of guy. He idolizes John Wayne. He wishes we could all just go back to the time where women were ladies and men were real men.

So, I ask you this, Angry White Guy: Would John Wayne throw a hissy fit because he was asked to pay $10 to get in to a club while his date only had to pay $5?

Hell no! John Wayne would man up. He would slap down a $20, tell the door attendant to keep the change while calling her honey and pinching her on the ass.

Newsflash to all Angry White Guys out there: you can't have your cake and eat it too. Either be a crybaby or be a real man. And real men don't whine... or sue!

Welcome To The Island: Gerard Butler

Who else could make a skirt and a pink shirt look so manly?

Due to high demand (okay... only one person), a new member will be inducted on to the island once a week. Not only am I living in fantasy land, but I am also so unoriginal that I chose Wednesday aka Hump Day (because my sense of humor never progressed past year 12... hee hee) as my debut.

This week's addition: Gerard Butler. The man is simply smoking hot. And that accent... every time he opens his mouth, I think of Samantha Jones' line "If he can do that with his R's, imagine what else his mouth can do."

An Introduction to the Russell-Pfau-Lannon Island Theorem

Anyone who has ever hung out with Rosie and I (and, if you were lucky, Andrea Lannon... RIP) may have wondered why we shout "That man is SO on the island!" upon seeing a hot guy. To understand this, one needs to trace the roots of the Russell-Pfau-Lannon Island Theorem back to our crazed college days.

I really miss college sometimes. Not all that pesky studying or having to sneak food out of the cafeteria in order to stock your fridge. But I do get nostalgic for those nights where everyone would sit around the dorm room and have the most nonsensical, vodka-fueled conversations about off-the-wall subjects. Themes of socialism in Dr. Seuss books? Check. The heavy use of phallic symbols in architecture as a latent reminder of male dominance? Done that. But our finest moment: the creation of a Utopian society located on a fantasy island where my friends and I would turn men in to our sex-slaves. Ching-ching! We have a winner!

This island theory was simple. Andrea, Rosie and I ruled it as a triumvirate. Each of us chose a man to be our king-escort who was our primary companion (sometimes the king-escorts were off-limits to the other friends, other times we would loan them out. No true consensus was ever reached on that topic.) The rest of the island consisted of man-candy ripe for the picking.

Rosie has consistently had Val Kilmer on her throne for 10 years now.

Sadly, Val doesn't quite look like Iceman anymore...


prompting us to add this addendum: All men on the island will be from the stage in their lives where the 3 queens find them the most desirable... even if that was several decades ago.

My king-escort throne has been a revolving door over the years. First it was Peter Wingfield from the TV show Highlander. Past occupants include Russell Crowe, Dave Navarro, Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson and, for a brief moment, even a Backstreet Boy (shut up!)

My current?

All hail Richard Armitage!

What? You don't know who he is? Shame! Get on Netflix this instant and move BBC's production of "North & South" to the top of your queue. Prepare to swoon with his depiction of John Thornton, a mill owner from the north who is love with a preacher's daughter from the south. Or turn on BBC America for Robin Hood and watch him smolder as Guy of Gisbourne.

Just be careful googling him. My beloved shares a name with Bush's former Deputy Secretary of State who is nowhere near as attractive.

Dirtbag Alert

John Edwards admitted to carrying on an affair with another woman while his wife was battling cancer. Seriously?!? What could possibly make a man go out and chase tail while the woman he claims to love is fighting for her life?

**Disclaimer: I have to own up to voting for this man twice. I was a NC resident when he ran against Lauch Faircloth for the Senate in 1998. I voted for him again in 2004 when he ran with John Kerry. Man... I can never pick the good ones... even when it comes to politics!

I work in a male dominated career field so I get to see this dark side of men. I hear them regale the office with stories of how great their wives are, how they are so very much in love with them and what marvelous cooks/mothers/housekeepers/lays they make.

Then we leave town to go on business trips. The very same men will head straight down to the bar to pick up a sweet unsuspecting young thing for a night of debauchery.

Is monogamy really that out of vogue these days? Are these men seriously that hard up to get laid? Why do they even bother getting married if they are going to continue on with this behavior?

My friend Christen posted this on her website. I hate to crib from her but this is too irresistible!

What is it about men...

who drive Jeeps?

who wear leather jackets?

who play rugby?

who have dimples when they smile?

or even the ones with a dimple in their chins?

who put on wire-rimmed glasses every once in a while?

who aren't afraid to eat sushi?

RIP Sleazy M

You are officially no longer a part of my life
I would have made this claim a few months back
But you were always lurking in the shadows
Trying to engage in combat by glaring
Man of war that you are
I thought you would pick a better weapon

A man of many faces
The upright family man trying to lead the perfect life
With the perfect girlfriend
And the perfect house

Other women saw another face
The lecherous man sitting on a bar stool
Luring women back to your perfect home
Promising them a perfect lay
Cheap thrills
Getting off on the knowledge
You were getting away with a whore
In the damn near marital bed

Then there was the third face
For the girl who was not quite the perfect girlfriend
Not quite the whore
You made me think I was this force you couldn't resist
That I was something special
Something enchanting

But in fact
You just made me another one of your whores

You told me I could never be the perfect girlfriend
And yet you kept sniffing around
Like the dog you are

When the covers got pulled back
And your most frequented whore exposed the truth
You were indignant
How dare the whore have her day!

Now your perfect girlfriend
Is putting the pieces back together
Without you.
She will be fine
And make the perfect girlfriend
For someone else.

Your whore is fine too
Ready to move on
You taught her that she is still capable of feeling something
I can dig through the shards of hatred in my heart
And remember how I felt
That I actually felt
Something
Wasted emotion, yes
But emotion nonetheless

You, on the other hand, are not fine.
Maybe you will realize this next week
Now that the perfect house is sold
And the perfect job is abandoned
Maybe sitting in the cold reality
Of your parents' basement
You will realize that you are a lonely forty year old man
With nothing.

She is fine

I am fine

You are not

Nothing but a forty year old man
With no one to love
No friends
No job
Clinging to a childhood dream of being a super hero
Puffed up with hot air
The only thing to keep you company are
The stories that you think make you the talk of the party
But you live in a basement
Alone

Let this thought ricochet
Through your head
Through what is left of your heart
Through the walls of that lonely basement

She is fine
I am fine
You are alone