Last week I was having drinks and pomme frites (and duck confit pizza and 4 cheese fondue and all sorts of other yumminess) with The Banker and The Realtor, and we were gabbing, as ladies are prone to do, about what makes The Ideal Man. Conveniently, The Realtor actually had her List handy - you know that List that every woman has detailing her "Mr. Right" and which incidentally, I don't have. Ahem.
So I've been giving my version of Mr. Right some thought. And so far there's only one thing I am sure of: I could never, ever, ever, ever in a million years be with a man* who eats Miracle Whip because Miracle Whip (as per my dear friend Queen Bitchypants) is Satan's Semen.
* Unless that man happens to be Nathan Fillion in which case he could eat Miracle Whip smothered in Velveeta and I wouldn't give a shit.


Uh yeah. Nathan Fillion could lick Miracle Whip off my naked body and I'd allow that. As long as he changed the sheets after.