I probably walk much faster than you do, though this is no way compromises my ability to converse yet faster. I spill coffee on myself with metronomic regularity, and always, always, in a brand new way each time. I like to overdress and, like Dorothy, think there's magic in the sound of heels clicking...however, unlike Dorothy, I'm the one always shutting my coat in the car door, or slamming the end of my scarf in the gym locker and trying to walk away as it strangles me. I know. Hot. If I were more easily embarrassed, the act of being me would be a kind of constant Dantean hell.

For reasons not quite known to me, I loathe the cartoon Scooby Doo with a seething, visceral passion; hearing Casey Casum's Shaggy voice, or the Scooby Doo "hee HEE hee hee" is almost a weapon of sorts; a trigger converting me quite cleanly into someone not fit for human consumption; possibly even an assassin.

I love the sound of a bass when it's played with a bow; I love the sound of guitar drifting across a campfire. I like to look at the stars and I nearly always think I am looking at the Big Dipper or Scorpio. My erroneous attempts at astronomical identification highly amuse me but please feel free to interrupt my ineptitude with fact-like substances.

I apologize effortlessly but that doesn't mean I might not argue something passionately. I like a devastating poem, a spirited debate, and a ripping yarn. I was a little obsessed with Battlestar Galactica until it started to suck shit. I am schooling my two boys on old science fiction in what is probably an age-inappropriate education. My boys are smart and funny, and called one of my coworkers an "Assassin of Fun," which was actually totally true.

Huge things are revealed in small gestures, so I pay attention to small gestures. A lot is revealed in small things. People show character and compassion in many ways; and the different vocabularies of kindness fascinate me.

Self-deprecation in a confident man is outrageously sexy. I like silence, I don't mind interruptions, a man who has opinions but thinks mine are of at least anecdotal interest, and who knows the pleasures of the senses (food, smells, textures, style). I want an equal who wants an equal...and that is important, because lots of men don't want an equal despite assertions to the contrary. (By the way, all you guys specifically seeking an Asian woman? Yeah, please go to an island? And any Asian woman that wouldn't want to roundly kick your ass after the stereotypical hooey you're projecting on them, you gals should probably go to the island too. Phew. There. Now we can see the band better. Anyway!) I want a superpower union, dammit. Equal (not the same) in capability, capacity, conviction and intelligence. Equally strong, equally tough. I want a man who wants the push and pull of mutual actualization...the kind of kinetic friction that kindles greatness in us both. I would totally get your back in a bar brawl, baby--I can find a roundhouse in me! And we'll revel in our successes back in the hotel room as we stitch up each other's ragged wounds, swigging bourbon to kill the pain :)

I love the male brain, the male sensibility, the angular reasoning and all the incumbent tangles that come with the differences...they are irresistible. I should note that if all you wear (ever) is polar fleece, and your idea of dressing up is the creased climbing pants, you will have to possess extraordinary masculine wiles to incite desire in me. I'm not saying it couldn't happen...but if you add some other horror on top, like yearly pilgrimages to Burning Man...well, then I'll cancel the sitter altogether. And even if you are swoonworthy by any standards, I'm not saying I'll fall for you...but if I do, you will be subject to unswerving loyalty, and small barrages of adoration which may or may not include: transcendental risotto; fine sipping tequila blended and garnished impulsively with random unidentified fruits from Uwajimaya, notes written in alphanumeric cipher (some of which are annoyingly difficult; I apologize in advance); drawings of you as a cyborg; certain kinds of media that you don't want lying around on your cell phone when your douchebag coworker picks it up and flips through it; a song or a stealthy conjunction of songs precisely engineered for your coffee-handed trek out the door and through your morning commute on some Tuesday morning when it's snapping cold out but the light is coming up sharp and orange and the edges of the trees are illuminated and suddenly we're all part of the same conspiracy.