Are You Wearing Clean Underwear?

You know how your mother always reminds you to wear clean underwear because you never know who you'll run into? Well, she was right. Not that anyone of importance has seen my underwear recently, other than that poor schmuck behind me at Target when I dropped a box of Gas-X on the floor and bent over to pick it up.

This past weekend I flew home to visit my family and get away from the oppressive heat in Baltimore. As I sat at the gate at BWI waiting for my herd to be called to board, I was doing some serious people watching. There was your old couple who couldn't hear their spouses conversation, the bald guy with the pony tail who looked like he hadn't bathed in about a month, that jerk off business man who is so important that he has to hold his phone in his hand while talking at the top of his lungs on his wireless devise, and of course the hoards of families heading up to the good 'ole capital district for the weekend. Then, just as I realized that I had forgotton the charge my ipod, I looked up and the crowd parted. As the figure in the middle of the tunnel of people moved toward me, I knew that I had a mission that needed to be completed in an hour and fifteen minutes. He was a vision in yuppy chic. He was clean cut, hair slightly tossled, light colored khaki pants with a belt that matched the yellow pony embroidered on his royal blue Polo shirt and of course a dark brown boat shoe with no socks. He was tall with broad shoulders and teeth as white and as straight as a snowbank on a mid January morning.

It was at this point when it became painfully obvious that I, in contrast, looked like a complete schlep. I had raced down to the airport straight from the office. It was hot and I was sweaty. I threw my frizzy hair into a knot on the top of my head, apparently I was going for the Pebbles Flintstone look. The a/c in my car never really kicked on because I was too busy fooling around with the radio to focus on keeping my self cool and it had been close to twelve hours since the last time I put any sort of anti persperant on. I don't think I was exactly malodorous, but I didn't smell good. The worst part about my look is that I was wearing a dark denim skirt and had the jean jacket that didn't fit in my carry on over my shoulders so I wouldn't have to carry it. That's right, I was wearing a denim tuxedo in an airport and the potential father of my adopted children was standing a mere 15 feet away from me (why would I go through the pain of childbirth when i could just adopt a child Angelina Jolie style).

That's when I started to panic. I reached into my bag and spritzed what I thought was a little perfume on my neck to get rid of some of the mustiness emanating from my underarms. Turns out it was breath freshener, but hey, spearmint is better than eau de sweat gland. I gave my best come hither look I could, then slyly looked away when he saw me. Our eyes kept meeting each other and I thought, YES! I am in! I was in the A boarding group and he was in the B boarding group, so there was the anxious anticipation that maybe, just maybe, he'd sit down next to me on the plane. I picked a window seat and made sure to give anyone eyeing that middle seat the dirtiest and scariest look I could in an attempt to deter them from sitting next to me. By the time he boarded the plane there were pretty much only middle seats left. As I saw him turn into the aisle, I noticed him scanning the plane for empty seats. We again made eye contact and he stopped his scan and made his way toward my row. When he was about two rows ahead, he gave me a look that said "Is anyone sitting there?" I gave him a confirmation nod that the seat was open and reserved specifically for his derriere only.

Then the unthinkable happened. All of a sudden I feel a thud in the seat next to me and look over to see a black garbage bag that was emitting a smell that resembeled hot trash. My olfactory senses detected the smell getting stronger and when I looked up I saw that bald man with the pony tail sticking his ass crack in the face of the person sitting in the aisle seat making his way to the throne reserved for Polo boy. What a disaster. Now instead of charming the pants off (literally) of Polo boy with my witty banter and sophistocated sense of humor, I would be spending the next 50 minutes learning how to breathe through only the pores in my skin!

What a waste of breath freshener,
Anita Mann

Doomed to be Single FOREVER!

Apparently my post from last night is lost somewhere in cyberland. I dont know why it didn't save but i just realized that it's not there. Anyway, I'll try to recreate as best I can.

To answer someone's question, no i'm not running out of things to write about, I've just been to busy to actually sit down and write stuff. I don't have time at work during the day and by the time I get home at night, the couch is calling my name with reruns of 90210 on SoapNet. So the honest answer is that I've just been really lazy lately but I'll try to step it back up.

So my social life has included going to many many weddings and its starting to become a real downer. As happy as I am for my friends, it kind of makes me want to vomit to think about them being happy together for the rest of their lives. Plus, the don't have to worry about when or where their next visit to bone city will be. They just have to roll over and climb on top of their spouse whenever the mood strikes. For us single folk, life is a giant enigma as to when and where the next pickle tickle will come. Plus then you have to worry about that person being clingy or diseased. Which makes it hard for a singal gal to commit to a hook up when she has to worry if the guy with the clap is going to harass her on an ongoing basis.

What's even more embarassing is that I am the person who is screwing up the seating arrangements. As more and more of my friends are attending these weddings with their boyfriends, fiences and husbands it is my single ass that makes the table count 9 instead of a nice round even 10. Obviously, I could bring a date but everyone I ask is conveniently "washing their hair." Now considering it takes boys all of thirty seconds to wash their hair, I'm pretty sure I'm getting blown off for each and every wedding I go to. And I cannot tell you how AWESOME it is when you're at the reception and the DJ puts on 'Lady in Red' and you have no one to dance with. Everyone pairs off with their dates except for Anita Mann: Soup for One, and has to sit at the table on the side completely motified and watch everyone else. You feel like a creepy voyeur.

I guess I missed the 'ring by spring' bandwagon in college because here I am, two years removed and spending my weekends watching everyone else slaying their prey. Even if I met someone tomorrow, a typical time line would tell me that I would have to date them for two years then be engaged for another. That means that I would be almost 28 years old by the time I got married, which isn't a bad age, but all of those wedding I've been going to, yeah those couple's won't be able to come to my marital extravaganza because they'll be too busy potty training their rugrats.

Today it was suggest to me that the best way for me to find a man is to get fake boobs and become anorexic. According to Teets, guys like girls with giant bombs who don't eat. As much as I would love to have a bigger rack, mostly so I could adequately fit into clothes without stuffing my bra, eating is just too much a part of my life to give up. It's a favorite past time and let's be honest, if I don't eat, I get cranky and no guy is going to want to deal with a squirrel with PMS 24/7.

So where does this leave me? Will I be the old woman with cats (and i HATE cats!)? Or will I at least have someone to parade around on my arm like an accessory? Do they do mail order boyfriends?

Party of One,
Anita Mann

The First Date

Since it has been since the first Bush Administration since the last time i've been on a date, i thought least I'd at least fantasize about one, not that there is any hope of going on a first date anytime too soon. Now I know that the typical first date is dinner and/or a movie, but really, it's been done. I wish that guys could be a little more creative in an attempt to impress a girl. And I love when a guy specifically says he wants to take you out to dinner, but then asks the girl what kind of places they like to eat. I think that I guy could pull of some of that old school charm much better if he says to the girl "I'd like to take you to insert restaurant name here on Friday night. If you're interested, I'll make reservations." It's just so much nicer when a guy has an actual plan in mind and not wondering around restaurant row looking for a nice place to eat where you don't have to wait 45 minutes for a table because you didnt plan ahead and make reservations. HOWEVER, and I know this is difficult, if a guy asks a girl if she has any restaurant preferences, she should at LEAST respond with places she doesn't like. Don't leave the choice completely up to him because he may end up taking you to the Indian Buffet, and those are two words that never belong next to each other. The last thing you need to happen on a first date is frequent trips to the bathroom because the dinner choice of your date caused your IBS to flare up.

The other problem with dinner first dates is that you are forced into conversation for the length of the meal. Now this would be all well and good if you were going to some place with a drive thru, but there's always those awkward pauses when the conversation ceases and someone is forced to come up with a new topic, quick. And usually that topic is something completely lame like the weather or the family dog.

This is why I have come up with a list of first date places that are not only original, but also involve times where talking is not always necessary:

• The Driving Range: nothing sexier than a guy "helping you with your swing"
• The Grocery Store: Is that a Banana in your cart or are you just happy to see me?
• Paintball: a great place to work out that sexual tension.
• A Tractor Pull and/or Monster Truck Rally: b/c it'll make you look good next to 10,000 mullets
• Midieval Times: dinner AND a show, at the same time, with knights!
• Cow Tipping: what else are you going to do when you live in the country?!

The first date is gonna Kick Ass,

Anita Mann

Truce

It has recently come to my attention that many people who read my diary do not realize that everything I say needs to be taken with a grain of salt. For those of you who do not know me, I am a very sarcastic person and tend to build upon the truth with cynicism and overall bitterness. It is never my intention to hurt anyone's feelings, however it is difficult for me not to critize when you open yourself up to it. But I know, that just because I may think it's amusing doesnt mean that eveyone else does also. With that said, I'm calling a truce. Apparently, I've pushed the envelope a little too far with some people who don't realize that I am in fact, not serious. So here's the deal, I'm going to apologize for the name calling but those of you who do not want their chains yanked, you have to let me know that in advance. Don't just pull the rug out from under me long after the callous banter has begun. Deal?

Anita Mann

The Best Effing Karaoke You've Ever Heard!

Ok, I need to start off telling everyone that believe it or not, I've actually been doing work while at work lately, hence the lack of daily updates. Also, because of this check back for updates in the evening b/c i'm probably going to have to wait until I get home at night to write something.

Anyway, back on target. I think that the Leader of the Pride has some serious explaining to do. I got a phone call on Saturday afternoon from J-Dawg (a fellow bridesmaid in the upcoming nuptuals of Jetswim and Sadow) and the bride herself. They were spending the afternoon before the bridal shower updating themselves on my quest right here in Charm city. One of the first things they noticed, was a frequent character and antagonist in my sojourn, the Leader of the Pride. They offered their opinion that the Leader is, in fact, a collossal douchebag (my friends are so intuitive). I had to explain to the girls that Mr. Pride is one of those guys who thinks he's cooler and sexier than he is.

Which brings me to my point of the day. For every suave and charming guy out there (The George Clooney types), the kind of guys that girls just swoon over, there are about 20 douchebags out there who think that they are Gods gift not only to women, but the world around them. Guess what? Girls want to feel desired. A girl is going to be much more attracted to a guy who is confident and persistant and who knows how to compliment said girl. The opposite are the arrogant guys who think that the girl should swoon just because he decided to talk to her. You know what? YOU'RE NOT THAT COOL! You're not that attractive and in fact, you kind of make me want to boot. I don't want to hear that you played Division One Lacrosse or that you once judged a wet tee shirt contest in Cancun. I want you to tell me that I am charming and attractive and any guy would be lucky to be with me! And for Thad's sake, grow a pair and make the first move. Your friends and family will be much more impressed when they hear that a guy approached you, not overly intoxicated, and flat out said that he liked you and would like to take you out. And by taking you out, I mean to a nice dinner. Not to go for a walk around the Harbor outside. And if a guy wants to buy a girl a drink, don't hand her a wad of cash and send her to the bar by herself (ahem Leader of the Pride) because then the girl feels more like a hooker than a lady.

But do you know what type of guys I find the most pathetic? The ones that come up behind you while you're dancing with your girls at the bar and make their way closer and closer until in fact they have reached their goal of grinding up against your entrance to the butt depot. I mean honestly, what do these guys expect? Do they honestly think that you are just going be so aroused by their awkward dancing and turn around to immediately reverse makeout? I don't think so! I mean would you buy a used car from an add on craiglist without taking a test drive? No. Then why would you be so excited to hook up with a guy sight unseen? Unless you're a ho... fo sho!

Finally, I have to share this lovely story from saturday night. A group of us went out in Fed Hill to celebrate CEE's birthday and decided on a pub crawl to all of the most infamous bars on Cross Street. After listening to some pretty horrendous karaoke at Nevins, the most amazing performer EVER got up and sang the "best effing karoke we've ever heard!" He started out with a rather erotic rendition of When Doves Cry, complete with a little flash of the beer gut. Then, much to his dismay, the second song he requested came on. That's right he treated us all to a little Greatest Love of All. I like to think that he was singing directly to me. After reminiscing about the night with some coworkers, I decided I missed an opportunity to break the streak wtih a perfect candidate. He was drunk and tone deaf... a man after my own heart.

But I think my favorite person of the night was a guy I spotted across the bar at Crazy Lils. This guy epitomized the Jersey guido in Baltimore. He was overly tan, spent more time at the gym pumping iron than earning a living and had more hair gel in his hair than Cameron Diaz in There's Something About Mary. But what completed his outfit? I think it was: THE MESH SHIRT! It was beyond sexy and all that was missing was a fanny pack. Ok who wears a mesh shirt after 1987? And really what is the purpose of the mesh shirt... are you spending so much time at the gym that you can no longer a shirt without holes in it? Am I supposed to be turned on at the sight of your nipples? I guess that's what the appeal of the mesh shirt is: nipple exposure and the potential to get a classy girl who thinks to herself, Damn, look at those nipples, sexy. I'm sorry, I dont want to see Brad Pitt's nipples let alone some random Jersey guy's nipples at a bar. I consider that a visual assault!

Ho Fo' Sho,
Anita Mann

The "I'm Trying to Attact A Man" Makeover

Congratulations, you've had your sexual awakening! Now, for most of the feminine human race, this occurs sometime during your teens. For me, it was on a bit of a hiatus (aka the streak), and is only now returning now that I'm in my (gasp!) mid twenties. Now, when a girl realizes that yes, she does in fact like boys, she begins to go through what I like to call the "I'm Trying To Attract A Man" Makeover. Basically, it's when she starts beginning to care about what she looks like in public and begins to tailor her own personal style to what she believes will be attractive to the opposite sex.

The make over starts with the incorporation of makeup into the wardrobe. Now, makeup can do wonders for a person. I mean, have you ever seen Oprah without her makeup? It's a scary phenomenon and I am a firm believer that all those celebrities we think are so "beautiful" only appear that way because they have an army of hair and make up artists specifically trained to make them look that way. I mean, if I had someone doing my make up every day I'd look hot too. Basically she starts using eyeshadow and lipstick and tends to end up looking more like a $2 hooker than enhancing her features. Once she gets the idea that she in fact looks like a prostitute, she starts to soften her look a bit and introduces herself to foundation. If she is lucky enough to learn how to find the right color for her skin (not the brozed orange she dillusionally thinks is her natural skin color) then she has to learn how to properly apply it. I cannot tell you how many girls walk around with a distinct line underneath her chin where the makeup stops and her skin starts. Now that the girl has begun using make up in her daily routine, she can never take it off. Why? Well for the same reason celebrities always wear makeup. People get used to you looking hot and the second the makeup comes off... its like night of the living dead in broad daylight. Plus the excessive amounts of foundation help to cover the face full of acne developed from the massive amounts of make up use. It's a vicious cycle.

Next, the girl starts changing her wardrobe. She ditches the amazingly comfortable wife beaters and sweatpants and opts for some more form fitting and revealing clothing. She may decide to start wearing skirts. Skirts can be cute, but be warned, they're called clothes for a reason. They're meant to cover your body, not expose your hoo ha at a moments notice. There's also one other big problem with wearing skirts: chafing. Don't act like it doesn't happen because there are approximately 5 people in the world whose legs don't rub together when they walk and those people all vomit after every meal. After a night of walking around with your legs rubbing together all you want to do is sit down on a couch spread eagle with a bag of ice on each inner thigh. I'm sure that'll bring the boys a runnin. A second option is to start wearing tight pants. Hey, I'm all for tight pants IF I DIDN"T WANT TO SIT DOWN ALL NIGHT. Besides when it comes time to take the tight pants off at night, you end up with seem marks on your legs where the tightness cut off the circulation to your feet.

So now you think, well i need to fit into my tight pants so clearly I need to hit the gym and loose some poundage. Now, I'm a big fan of staying healthy to stay healthy. I am not a big fan of those girls who go to the gym in sports bras and spandex and read various GSSMs on the elliptical while listening to Justin Timberlake on their ipods. If you're gonna work out, then work out. Get sweaty and don't care what you look like doing it. And please, NO MAKEUP AT THE GYM! Although I warn you. Working out does have one negative side effect. The first area where the pounds come off is on your chest. So if you already have a small rack to begin with, like myself, the second you start working out your boobs will become nonexistent.

The final chapter of the makeover is the intellectual makeover. Because most girls think that all guys want are girls who only interested in their bodies, their minds become like organic health food cereal: nothing but puffed air. They spend most of their time worrying if they look fat and the majority of their conversations consist of giggling and the words: oh my god!

So what does the "I'm Trying to Attract A Man" Makeover leave you with? A flat chested girl with the iq of a piece of fruit, raw thighs and a face full of zits. Look out, here come the hoards of men you were looking for.

Don't hate me b/c I'm beautiful,
Anita Mann

What Happened to Courtship?

Whatever happened to the days when a boy would like a girl and ask her out on a date? I mean, did they go out of style around the same time as bee hive haircuts and poodle skirts? I'm pretty sure that the only way relationships in this day and age start is with a random hook up or, minimum, a make out. I mean, it seems like all relationships start out in this way: a girl goes to a bar with her friends and has a few drinks. She starts chatting up a random guy, or maybe a mutual friend of a friend, and separates herself from her group. Next thing you know this girl is either swapping spit with this guy in a dark corner of the bar or she finds her friends to inform them that she's taking off and going back to his place for some late night fun. If she's lucky, the guy will call her the next day and ask her out on a valid date. But let's be honest, nine times out of ten these people never see each other again.

So my question is, how does a girl who makes out with a guy at a bar attempt to pursue said dude without looking weird? I mean, isn't it the guy's job to chase after the girl? And how long does that window remain open before you just become another random hook up at a bar that the guy ends up joking about and embellishing about with his friends at a later date? Not that any of this scenario has happened to me recently, because if it had, I would be lounging by the pool with a drink in my hand in the heart of bone city.

I think the bigger question here is: When did the male species become a bunch of pussies and decided they have to wait for the girl to show some sort of interest? That whole myth that girls can get with any guy they want is a bunch of bologna. Most girls are waiting for the guy to make the first move because they do not want to appear too forward. Besides, I am a firm believer that a guy may like a girl who is forward at the beginning but does not want to have a long term relationship with this girl because she is more forward and confident than he is. It makes him feel like less of a man than he already is because he didn't approach the girl in the first place. Guess what guys? Girls want to be chased, not stalked or harrassed, but chased. They want to feel attractive, it'll boost their self esteem and they will probably be much more apt to goign out with you if you make them feel that way. ALL YOU HAVE TO DO IS MAKE THE FIRST MOVE AND STOP ACTING LIKE A PUSSYBITCH!

Moving on, since apparently it is now up to the girl to show interest I am curious to find out the best ways to do so. I prefer to take the chickenshit approach and in order to give the guy your number for future reference, you shoot him an email (if you have it available) saying you need a ride somewhere (ride clearly having dual connotations) and ask him to call you either way. This secures the ball in his court. Or you could do what my manager suggested. She recommends that the next time you see the guy, post hook, you should just put your hand in his pocket. That would be all well and good except I'm pretty sure that putting your hand in someone else's pocket is considered Sexual Abuse/Harassment in most states. Besides who just walks up to someone and puts their hand in their pocket? And what do you do afterwards, just gaze at him with stars in your eyes while your hand is in his pocket? Or do you carry on a conversation with another person while your hand is in someone else's pocket? Either way, its just weird and makes you look like you're trying to rip off his wallet instead of trying show your interested. The idea is to get in his pants in the figurative sense, not the literal.

I've got one hand in my pocket and the other one is...
Anita Mann

It's So Hot, Milk Was A Bad Choice!

Hello friends. I apologize profusely for not posting yesterday. I had a presentation during prime post time and was way too busy goofing off around the office with the other minions while all of management were locked away in a windowless conference room all day with the boys from Home Office. Besides seeing as it was 100 degrees here in Charm City, it was just too hot to sit behind a computer screen while my body succombed to Swass.

But it's Tuesday and I'm back now! So I'm sure you're all wondering how my weekend was. Well, I'm sorry to say that it was completely uneventful. I decided to "call in fat" to the weekend and opt for lounging by the pool all day, which clearly made me way too tired to go out at night. Besides, why would I want to wear jeans so tight that they leave a zipper impression on my lower Stewie when I could lounge around in my mesh ND shorts and wife beater.

On Sunday, I was pretty much camped out by the pool all day long. I sported a cute suit, my ralph lauren terry cloth cover up and packed a beach towel, The Devil Wears Prada, my cell, a Nalgene full of peach flavored iced tea, and of course tanning oil, SPF 8. What did I learn on Sunday? Well, when your skin is whiter than an actor in a kabuki drama, you probably should opt for a sunscreen with MINIMUM spf 30, not a tanning OIL. Needless to say, I ended up walking around all day yesterday looking more like Clifford, The Big Red Dog and radiating more heat than the sun then an expertly air brushed Giselle before a runway show.

A lot of my co workers were concerned about the new shade of crimson I had adorned on my skin. However, I advised that this burn was marginal compared to the sunburn of Spring, 2001. While laying out on North Quad Beach during study days of the spring semester of my Freshmen year, long before the days when Starbucks and Subway called LaFortune Home, wearing only a tank top and my tiny baby blue shorts that said Irish across the butt (this is back when I was about 40 pounds lighter... damn, NDH dysentary was like, the best diet EVER!). I fell asleep under the hot Indiana sun for approximately 6 hours, which was just about as strong as the sun in Cozumel in July.

For those of you who dont' know, North Quad Beach was only open during those last few weeks of school, when Permacloud lifted itself from the sky over South Bend and the temperature sky rocketed from 30 degrees to 85 degrees over night. North Quad Beach was a daily fixture in my routine. I would bring out my blanket and pretend to do some work, when really I would be people watching/judging with Doppler, listening to the music blaring from Farley and keeping my eyes peeled for any stray frisbees. You could always expect the boys from Zahm to bring out furniture (and by furniture, I mean their sofas and la-z-boys, not patio furniture) and a blow up pool. Clap would venture over from West Quad with his guitar and Sherpa would be making the rounds to the various groups of people asking if they wanted to buy Pig Tostal Tickets. Clearly, the most important questions on everyone's mind was whether they could get away with skipping class and when they were goign to turn on Stone Henge. There wasn't a sunny day that didnt pass when I wasn't on North Quad Beach, which solidified my status as North Quad Beach Icon.

When I woke up in a pool of my own sweat and dehydrated beyone belief, I realized that my skin was literally cooking on my body. The next three days were spent vomiting from sunstroke, sleeping with no blankets because I couldn't stand letting anything touch my body, and being freezing cold as a result of my skin being so hot. But, after those three days, let me tell you: BEST TAN EVER! The problem? I was left with permanent tank top and short shorts tan lines for literally two and a half years following the tanning debaucle.

Anyway, I digress. Since the sunburn incident of 2001, my tan lines have reverted back to normal and I now possess the ability to wear a bathing suit with out looking like a complete freakshow. However, after last Sunday's burn, I have a whole new set of tan line issues. Since the only people at my pool essentially comprise the entire geriatric community of Northern Baltimore County, I figured it was ok to brave the sun in a bikini. I mean, who did I have to impress? Well, now i know why girls with bellys should NEVER wear bikins. When you're hunched over reading a book and you belly is touching your miniscule boobs, no sun is going to reach the area just under the bottom of your bikini top. Consequently, I am currently sporting two "U" shaped white marks on my stomach that showcase a reflection of my tatas within my tan. Sweet. If that wasn't bad enough, Stewie has a tendency to crease in around my belly button. So, unless I'm laying completely flat on my back, my belly button goes into hibernation pulling a good chunk of beer gut in along with it. Now, I have a strip of lily white belly running straight across the middle of my body. I seriously look like a Zebra whose recently been exposed to high levels of radiation.

So what does all of this mean for the streak? Well basically, this will have forced me to continue with my absence in riding the bologna pony until my tan fades and I no longer look ferocious without my clothes on. Let's be honest, even if I had the opportunity to break the streak, the second my shirt came off, he'd go running far away for fear that I was not in fact from this planet. However, if anyone asks, I'll be taking this time/opportunity to perfect my "play hard to get" methods of flirtation. The fact that my body color is currently on opposite sides of the color wheel will remain our little secret.

Should have gotton on the Banana Boat,
Anita Mann

"Get Up, Get On Top, Go To Sleep"

I would like to talk about something that is more than bothersome. You know, I like to think when you've been in a relationship for a decent amount of time and you decide to express your feelings for one another in the physical sense that it tends to be a nice experience. Today, the Leader of the Pride and the Token Asian One pretty much snuffed out that theory. Apparently, after a long term relationship has been established the whole idea of the girl getting anything out of the horozontal dance basically disappears. To quote the Leader of the Pride " Yup, after a guy's put the effort into the relationship and has the girl for himself, he just wants to pound her out until he's satisfied then go to sleep, because it's tiring."

Ok boys, I'm pretty sure this mentality is not ok. Now granted, I'm not much for cuddling you get all hot and sweaty and you just can't fall asleep with some dude smothering you. But honsetly, foreplay is an absolute necessity. Besides I am sure that there are those guys out there who like to open a bottle of champagne and throw on a little Boyz II Men "I'll Make Love To You." WHen you're getting down to that scenario, the idea of goign to pound town is absolutley ridiculous. The next time you blame PMS for a girl's bad day, consider taking a little extra time and be a little more attentive to your lady friend. If all girls wanted was to get repeatedly pounded, they would be employed by the world's oldest profession: prostitution. In which case your intended poundee is probably not disease free. So to all of you selfish boys out there, I say enjoy your herpes, they'll be with you for a lifetime.

Don't you all love how I write about this as if I actually even have to worry about it? Perhaps I should be more concerned when the flood gates of booty lifts what seems like its lifetime bannishment against me.

On a different note, I would like to respond to the comment regarding my alleged "countdown to lesbianism." According to the author of said comment, if i get to a certain amount of time until the last time i've gotten anything, I should consider switching teams to see if I have better luck. Now, I know that I like sitting around in sweats and tee shirts and I find football more interesting than Gilmore Girls, but this does NOT make me a lesbian. And besides, even if I were to consider changing teams, its not like its a light switch you can just turn on and off. I'd have a really hard time switching from Polish Kielbasa to Taco salad. I've said it before and I'll say it again, I am your typical red blooded meat eating american.

Finally, to the person who commented as Brady Quinn, please identify yourself. Unless it really is Brady Quinn, in which case, I'll be on campus for the Penn State game so call me!

Uhhh, I'm here for the gang bang,
Anita Mann

The Bend And Snap Incident of 2006

Today I need to start out saying hello to a few people out in Denver. First and foremost, is Denver SLG and the one and only Denver SLG icon, Justin Z (I heart you!). Also, hello to "8 Shot Hot Shot" Laurie and her ND interns. It was because of these interns that I realized that for those of you who read my diary and do not know who I am probably think that I am some this heinous fat girl and the reason why I cannot get a date is not because the dating world is difficult, but because I am down right ugly. Well, lets just say that on scale of Linda Tripp to Jennifer Aniston, I fall somewhere in the range of Carney Wilson (post Gastric Bypass).

Today during lunch, I took the GSSM tip of a few days ago and ate outside in a crowded area. A few friends and I ate at one of the tables at the local out door strip mall and did some serious people watching. After seeing one bonerrific young professional wearing the trendy hot blue shirt and yellow tie, the decent male population became sparse. Then he came out of Panera in a blaze of glory. Yes, it was Kevin Federline's long lost w.t. brother from baltimore. There he was in his white sneakers, khaki shorts and white beater. I'm pretty sure he didn't have a drivers license because he was clearly with his father and grandmother walking around the mall. Yet he attempted to keep a comfortable distance away from them to let others think that maybe he wasn't with the elderly but not to let his fam know that he was not, in fact, embarassed to be around them. And let me tell you, this was one classy dude. When he saw a girl walk by, I mean ANY girl, this kid would stare for an inappropriate amount of time. There was no sly look or even the up and down. No this guy was just flat out staring at these girls like a fat kid stares at cake.

So of course my lunch time companions and myself pointed and laughed out our poor gawking friend. But I figured this would be a good opportunity to test out my femininity on a dude that I have absolutely zero interest in and thus do not care of making a fool of myself. Besides, I figured now was the opportunity to take the Leader of The Pride's advise and lower my standards. Although, when I told him this story upon my return, he advised that I dont need to completely shut off all remaining standards I have left. So what do I do when he rounds the corner? Well the only obvious choice: The Bend And Snap works every time! No we all know how to do the bend and snap, but for those of you who live under a rock, its pretty basic. First you drop something on the ground to pick up. Then you beeeend and snap! The trick is to have enough bend and a quick snap.

So as my prey was making his way to the garbage can, a good 7 feet in front of his dad. I make my way over with the excuse I need to throw away my drink. As I approach the garbage can, I conveniently drop my car keys on the floor. So as I bend over to pick them up, I flirtily push my bum (aka Lois, my secretaries) up in the air as high as I could and I snapped back up. This is where things went terribly wrong. When you're wearing a polo shirt and khakis, it doesn't really look that cute when your ginormous ass is sticking up in the air for everyone to see. I might as well have painted a bulls eye on my derriere and had someone shoot me with an arrow to put me out of my misery. To top it all off, I totally missed the mark of my intended snapee. I hesitated and my knight in shining beater ended up walking by as I dropped my keys so the only person who got a good look at my rump was his father who was assisting the grandmother with the task of walking. CURSES, FOILED AGAIN!

Maybe it doesn't work every time,
Anita Mann

Project Anita Mann

Today is July 12th and do we all know what happens on July 12th? Well, it's the return of Project Runway on Bravo! I cannot even begin to convey my excitement. It's like the night before Christmas. Who will Nina Garcia snap at? What metaphors will Michael Kors use to describe the inevitable hideousness of some designer's outfit (think Reymundo Balthazar or Starr from season one... and what kind of name is Starr... with two Rs and no last name anyway) What color plunging neckline dress will Heidi Klum wear and will it be partnered with dramatic eye makeup? And most importantly, Will Tim Gunn ever find love in this crazy world now that Andre is gone? Does anyone else hope that Diana Eng pulls a Daniel Franco and returns for season three just so we can listen to the sound of her voice?

I think I should start my own Project Runway-esque contest in order to find myself a man. I'll have a bunch of men parade around on a runway, a man pageant if you will, and assign them challenges to complete. After each challenge one of the contenders will get the Auf Wiedersen. Challenges will include buying the perfect present, general overall appearance, your occassional ND football pop quiz, and of course, a dance off. Clealry, the judges will include icons and serial daters like the former office resident Man Whore (who has since moved back to denver and works at Enterprise Rent A Car and takes tourists on fly fishing expeditions) and of course La Lohan. Then of course you'd have your iconic guest judge for the week. You never know who'll show up on Project Anita Mann. Will it be someone with a lifesized poster of herself at Finnegans? Will it be our favorite Account Coordinator, Thad Doyle? Or will it culminate with Preggers herself clacking away... she's EVERYWHERE!

I have yet another reason why going to a bar on an off night is a potentially scary thing to do. If you recall, I conversed with two drunk dudes who were a little on the odd side. There was the somewhat cute Lion/Weasel hybrid and his wing man. At some point in their conversation, before they brough me into the mix, the Lion/Weasel said to the Wing man: You've been on how many dates and she hasn't blown you yet? This leads me to the ongoing debate of the day. How many dates can a girl get away with before mouthifying her male companion is not only expected, but required. I mean seriously, enlighten me. I did not realize that there were rules for this type of situation. And what is they date to bj ratio these days? Five for every one or is it more like one or two? I've been out of the game for a long time here people so have the rules really cahnged that much? The other big question here is what qualifies as a date? I mean, I don't think hanging out on a dude's couch watching him play video games and drinking beer constitutes as a date. And what happens if you do on an actual date where he opens the door and pays for your meal. If there is no alcohol involved, I dont think that a mouthification session is really in the cards. So until I hear otherwise or someone enlightens me on BJ protocol, I'm going to stick with keeping the streak alive for the time being.

Make It Work,
Anita Mann

Home Run Derby or Struck Out Looking Derby?

As most of you know, I am back on track with the GSSM tips of the day in finding a man. Yesterday's tip just happened to coinside with a coworkers birthday. The tip was to go to a bar on an off night because bypassing the weekend mobs give you a better shot at connecting with a guy. Too bad all of the guys who go out on off nights are all FREAK SHOW ALCOHOLICS! We started off at a restaurant/bar in Fells Point for dinner and martinis. Much to my dismay, the patron population consisted of only chicks out doing probably the same thing I was: looking for men on an off night. Ok people, this tip only works if the men also go out! There was one guy there, who wasn't too unfortunate looking. Too bad he was sitting with who I can only hope was his mother. There was a mini debate at the table to decide if his dining companion was a cougar or a mother. I like to hope it was a mother and that there is still hope for me yet.

We next headed over to Claddaghs. For those of you who don't live in Baltimore, Claddaghs is kind of like Finnegans. Except they serve food during the day and the unspoken uniform for girls is anything from Bebe with the Bebe prominently displayed somewhere on the outfit preferred. And the athletes are replaced with guidos and white T. So why do I frequent this establishment? Probably because they have $1 Miller Lites and play Every Time We Touch about every five songs. Oh and if you keep your eyes peeled, you can find the occassional decent looking frat boy turned young professional looking for love in all the wrong places, not unlike yourself.

Even though I went out with a pack of Zebras, I tried to remember that the Lion will be more inclined to approach the Squirrel. I spotted a relatively good looking guy (clean cut, polo shirt, well groomed hair... no gold chains and chest hair to be found) sitting at the bar and positioned myself away from the pack to a#1 allow for an easy approach from said Lion and b#2 to get a better view of the Television because David Wright was hitting at the Home Run Derby. I had turned to a fellow Zebra and made a comment about the utter sexiness of David Wright. Apparently this comment was overheard by the Lion and who I can only assume (and pray to god) was is Wing Man. Apparently, living in Baltimore and following a NY team will get you called out because that is exactly what these guys did.

But whatever, did I care? No! I was in. The cute Lion and his wing man were talking and seemed interested in carrying on a conversation. Too bad I didn't recognize the signs to abandon ship earlier. Both dudes were smokers kind of turn off but hey, beggers can't be choosers and according to The Leader of The Pride, I have to lower my standards. Not to mention the fact that the wingman was so drunk that he was attempting to talk on the phone via his Foakley sunglasses, which by the way were secured around his neck with a short lanyard freqently adorned by elderly ladies. Sexy. That's when the conversation turned from strange to bizarre. After joking around with the guys for a few minutes about who the better action star is: Van Damme or Segal the obvious choice being Van Damme!, The guy with streak breaking potential starts going on a rant about why Segal is not cool and started listing facts about segal that no one other than Segal himself should know! I mean really, who has such contempt for Segal that he looks facts up about him on the internet... Scary! Thank god a Better Than Ezra song started playing because I was able to escape the conversation and/or change the subject.

Unfortunatley, I got reeled back into the conversation. The subject matter switched from Segal and Van Damme to music preference. The once intriguing Lion morphed into your typical Weasel said that he enjoyed power ballads from the 80s and 90s. Did he say power ballads? Could I possibly have found someone who enjoys Alone by Heart as much as I do? I had to put him to the test! I asked what he thought about Asia. His response: "I Like Asia. Lots of good countries, some of them have some termoil, but Asia's a good continent." Clearly, if you're response to Asia has to do with the continent and not the 80s supergroup, then clearly you are not the Lion/Weasel hybrid for me. On a side note, if you do not have the song Heat of the Moment by Asia on your ipods, download it IMMEDIATELY. You'll thank me later. It's a great fist pumping song.

But the culmination of this dude's oddness came when he tried to start spitting off jokes to me. And no, they were not the trendy Chuck Norris jokes that are makign their way around the internet. These were dead baby jokes. Seriously. They were jokes about dead babies. I don't even like babies and I did not find them the slightest bit amusing. I feel that he could sense that I wasn't feeling the dead baby jokes, so he explained that you have to be extremely cynical to appreciate them. Umm... HELLO! I am the most cynical person out there besides your angry Stand Up Comic a la Sandra Bernhard. Considering that I get the feeling that I am going to grow up to be the strange lady with cats (and I don't even like cats). I'm pretty sure that qualifies me as cynical. No. These dead baby jokes were just bizarre. No humor to them whatsoever. Call me when you can start quoting lines from The Cutting Edge, then we'll talk.

So what did last night tell us. Yes, if you go to a bar on an off night, you're bound to find someone. But that person you find will either be A) an alcoholic B) Completely whacked out or C) all of the above. The single life is a scary environment. You have to watch your back and just hope that you find someone who has acquired the taste for 80s fist pumping music and does not see the humor in dead babies.

It was the heat of the moment,
Anita Mann

It's Time To Go Big Or Go Home!

As I lay sleeping in the most wretched position imaginable, I am awaken by the malodorous smell of stale beer and hours old vomit wafting through the air. A scent I have dubbed, Eau De Boat Club. My stomach lurches and my head is spinning. I have yet to open my eyes because the idea of daylight searing through my skull is just something that I cannot handle at this point in time. I am incredibly uncomfortable, but I do not want to move a muscle for fear of uncontrolled projectile vomiting. No, I need to keep my gastrointestinal tract undercontrol until I can get up the nerve to make my way to the bathroom. I bravely open my eyes and attempt to focus on the my white ceiling. Maybe I need to put in my contacts, because as I gaze confusedly to my ceiling I do not see the hospital white I anticipate. I have a blurry view of a Guns and Roses poster hung on an angle on the ceiling. Now, Axl Rose is kind of cool and all, but I would NEVER buy a Guns and Roses poster, and wait a minute, I don't wear contacts either. Then it hits me. I am not in my room but in a strange place. I look around to get my bearings to see dirty laundry on the floor, a computer with a naked lady screen saver, an ashtray full of cigaretts, a guitar propped up against the wall and blank sheet music strewn about the floor. Then it dawns on me. I am not at all at home but in the bedroom of some starving artist frat boy who values expressing his soul through music and cigarettes as opposed to keeping a clean apartment and appearance.

Then I roll over to see it. The horror which lay beside me was none other than a random boy laying on top of bed sheets that probably have not been washed in months wearing only boxers and sporting morning wood. What the hell happened last night? The last thing I remember was dancing to Tone Loc with a beer in one hand and a pitcher of Red Bull Vodka in the other. Who was this strangr who lay next to me? And what diseases had I contracted from what I can only assume was a night of red hot passion followed by an abrupt passing out by both parties.

OK people... the above story did NOT happen to me, nor to anyone else I know (I dont think)! This was just an example of how I do NOT want to break the streak. The overwhelming number of times it has been suggested to me that I just get blacked out drunk and hook up with some random guy. People, if I'm goign to break the streak, I WANT TO REMEMBER IT! I'm not saying it has to be special or anything, but I would like to have some sort of mental confirmation that the streak had in fact been broken the next day. The thought of waking up in a strange person's bed with a hangover, a swollen vajayjay, and venerial disease is not exactly how I want to go out in a bang of glory. Yes, its true. I am hard up for some action. But I've learned to embrace it. In fact, considering that I advertise it on the web and I could probably wear a sign around my neck that begs for some action, I dont think that not remembering the voyage to Bone City is an option.

Things cannot be rushed into. Playing the game is part of the fun. I mean so is getting blacked out drunk and finding out what you did the night before from a third party is too, but I'm never going to find my way back to Bone City if I don't have a map in the car.

Anyway, I was forced to take a week off from my manhunt due to the visitation of Big Momma: Game Killer. But now, it's a new week and a new era. I'm halfway through the tips and it's time to step up my game. I should at least have some prospects by now, but all I have in my back pocket is Slut Bag's Sophie B. Hawkins singing friend who said he'd go out with me if I "cleaned myself up a little." Sweet. People, I may be a little rough around the edges, but there is no mistaking my cleanliness. There can't be, I HAVEN'T BEEN TOUCHED IN AN EXORBITANT AMOUNT OF TIME!!! So tonight, I will be taking the GSSM's tip and going to a Bar on an off night to see what's available. Trifecta enforced and ready to spit some hard core game!

Damn! I Wish I Was Your Lover,
Anita Mann

The "Theory"

I'm sure you all know that common theory about how men don't date down? For those of you who dont know it, i'll indulge you. See, there are levels of attractivenss out there. For example, you have the super hot people, like Kate Bosworth or Orlando Bloom. They're in the top 5% of the population. Then you have your good looking, genetically blessed people, like Bode Miller (he may be a complete jackass, but he's still pretty hot). They represent the next 15% of the population. Now you have your crowd of average looking people. The people you see on the street every day and don't take a second look at. This is about 50% of the population. Next is your group of unfortunate looking people, but people who could still look half way normal if they cleaned themselves up a bit think of the freakshows they do make overs for on Oprah or 10 years younger... god bless you Yoanna House! This is getting on the lower end of 25% of the population. Then you have your downright ugly people with no hope of ever looking good. Essentially, you're Steve Buscemi's of the world. And unfortunately there are a lot of them... They're the bottom 25% of the population.

Anyway, men will only date up a level. Think about every couple you've ever known. Odds are most of those guys were dating chicks way hotter than they were. Now, you do have your few anomolies where the guy is hotter than the girl, but these are few and far between. However, men can thank their lucky stars because girls are more than willing to give up attractiveness for other qualities in a guy, sense of humor, generous spirit, money! Which is why these dudes have the ability to date up.

Basically, I am a dude who only wants to date up. Which is probably why I am going on such a long streak. I dont realize that these dudes who I think may have potential are actually out of my league. Hence the "Oh My god, you are so far out of your league look and you dont even know it... Pathetic" look I frequently get from guys is a frequent occurrence in my life. I guess the problem is that I set my goals too high. Realistically, I am probably somewhere in the middle 50% range... but i only set myself up for the top 25%. And since, I am missing a testosterone filled appendage between my legs, this process just isn't going to work out for me.

In the immortal words of foreinger:
I Wanna Know What Love Is,
Anita Mann

Friends with Benefits?

As many of you know, I have an early morning work routine. Come in, check my email, get some coffee, and go through my website routine: perezhilton.com, pinkisthenewblog.com, weather.com, espn.com and finally msnbc.com. On today's front page, below all of the articles about emmy nominations, Kenneth Lay's kicking the bucket and the Mexican presidential electiosn there was an article entitled: Sexploration, is 'friends with benefits' a good idea? So of course I read it even though I felt wrong for doing so at the office... some of the language was quite graphic. Basically this lady had written in to MSNBC's resident Sex doctor saying that she's in her mid 40s and hadn't had sex in five years lady, cry me a river! I guess she's had some difficulty in the past with guys lying about their marital status and sexual orientation... now i can see how men can lie about being married but to lie about sexual orientation? I mean, clearly if the guy is persuing you, he's into girls on some level... so what's the problem? Ok sure, maybe he is using you as "an experiment" or he has bisexual tendencies, but if you haven't gotten any in five years, your Lion's sexual orientation is a quality that you shouldn't be too concered about. Beggers can't be choosers. Apparently some of her friends had suggested having a "friend with benefits."

This got me to thinking, maybe a friend with benefits would be like getting EZ Pass on the Thruway. Still a long journey to bone city, but with the occassional quicker line at the toll plaza. For me, I'd have to find a new friend with whom to have benefits. As much as I adore all of my male friends, I'm sorry but I don't want to see you in the buff. Gross... that is a thought that just gives me the heebeejeebies. In fact, many of my male friends wear, in my mid, Ken underwear. For those of you who don't know, Ken underwear is permenant underwear that can never be taken off, much like the Ken doll: it is soddered right onto the body. That way there is never any fear of seeing any of the guy's gonadular region. But I digress. Maybe I dont want to be friends with benefits with any of my friends because they tend to offer up too much information regarding their own sexual conquests. Which guys, tends to be a bit of an overshare... a simple 'got some play last night, it's gonna be a good day' would be more than enough information. So where does this leave me? Do I find a new friend to be beneficial with? Well, there's no point to that. If the ultimate goal is to get some booty, I say stop beating around the bush with the friend crap and just go right for the glory! Becoming friends first takes a lot of time and effort that I just don't have the energy for.

When you begin hooking up with a friend, there's the unknown territory of attachment. Considering i've never done anything of the sort, I cannot say with certainty that I wouldn't get attached, particularly b/c I have a friendship invested in addition to the potential 'O face.' Although, boys, don't flatter yourselves, I'm a tough sell. However, I like to think using a friend for some 'companionship' would not allow me to become attached to you. Let's be honest, I don't really care what or who you do in your spare time. In fact, I don't even want to know. The coumnist warns that 'once the clitoris gets involved, the heart follows.' A#1 GROSS! B#2, that may be true for your typical needy and clingy girly girl, but when you're someone whose number one person is themselves... I dont find this being a problem.

In conclusion, after going through the great 'friends with benefits' debate in my head, I have concluded that there will be no bumping of the nasties between myself and any male friend, current or future.

How can we be lovers if we can't be friends?,
Anita Mann

Curses, Foiled Again!

I was recently invited to a rather ridiculous party involving bathing suits and water, so clearly, I'll be attending (obvi)! I didn't want to wear the same tired old bathing suit that I wear all the time or the other option, a faded out speedo with a whole in the butt so I took a trip over to Water Water Everywhere to find a new suit. It was during this shopping excursion that I realized that the one and only, Sarah Bowman who I may or may not have outed as a Lesbian in a drunken stupor... and for the record, she is NOT, is my new idol. Since the party I'll be attending is going to be absolutly ridic, I was trying to think of what the most iconic person I knew would wear. And that icon is none other than Ms. Bowman. As I was going through the racks of suits by Michael Kors, Ralph Lauren, Shoshanna, and D&G the only deciding factor as to which suit I would try on was "Would Sarah Bowman wear this suit?" If the answer was no, the suit would get thrown into the "Frump" pile and I would continue with my quest. Clearly, I was more worried about what this icon, who probably won't even see me in this suit, would think, not whether it would look good on me. I finally settled for a Bowman worthy Betsy Johnson suit that essentially looks like a french maid's underwear. Let's just say that it's black lace with white lace trim and a rhinestone decal of puckering lips on the butt. The suit will look amazing capped off with the white straw hat I purchased to compliment the suit as well as my amazing rhinestone Channel sunglasses (wow... i am a giant label whore!) The difference between me wearing the Bowman worthy suit and Bowman wearing the suit is my spare tire, Stewie, will be making a cameo apperance as opposed to Bowman's amazing magical boobs. For those of you who know Sarah Bowman, you know exactly what I'm talking about. For those of you who don't know Sarah Bowman, well, I'm sorry, you're just not that privledged! Divine Ms. B., I'm your number one fan!

Since it was a holiday weekend, I haven't been keeping up with Perez Hilton lately. It's what I do at work! After reading my last diary entry proclaiming my love and admiration for NPH, a co worker informed me that Perez Hilton recently dicussed Mr. Harris having A BOYFRIEND! How did I not see this coming? I mean, he was in RENT!

Speaking of hot gay boyfriends, I thought I'd update you on my quest to talk to three cute babes. I found myself a potential latin lover while shopping this past weekend. Now I usually don't go for the Latin type, but this man was beautiful. Very Mark Consuelo (damn you Kelly Ripa) with green eyes. As I was chatting him up, he began to mention how excited he was about the tickets he just got for the upcoming Esther concert. And by Esther, I mean Madonna. This was hint number two that the boy was gay. What was tip number one... well he was my shoe salesman. I wondered why I had no qualms about chatting this boy up. Yet another reason why the best ass in town is gay ass!

My second attempt at chatting up a hot babe occurred at my local starbucks this weekend. I thanked the cutie for holding the door for me and mentioned how nice it is to see that there are nice guys around. After giving him my best come hither look which still looked slightly like The Rock the potential prey looked me up and down and gave me the "wow, you are so far out of your league and you don't even realize it... PATHETIC" look, turned around and walked to the other line so that I wouldn't talk to him anymore. Ok people, I def got the visual rejection... you would think that my ego would have deflated... well it did.

The weekend was almost over and I still needed a third cute guy to chat up. Well, haven taken my visiting mother to dinner at ouback last night don't judge, outback is some damn good eating I was fortunate enough to be steated at a table with a sexy waiter. When big momma went to the rest room to wash her hands, I attemepted to talk to the hot waiter. I mentioned that I was all excited to see the fire works and as he began to respond, here comes the game killer herself back to the table, Mom, who then opened her mouth about me opting for a salad as opposed to a steak. FOILED AGAIN!! (And who orders salad at outback anyway?!?!) I mean, this one had potential. Even though he's not really my type and worked at outback... I'm not looking for a ring, just your occassional pickle tickle!

By the way, my thoughts are with David Hasselhoff has he recovers from his freak shaving accident which required surgery. Hasselhoff, you're still the man!

Outback: a great place for meat,
Anita Mann

A Declaration of Love For NPH

I think its time that I share with you all the evolution of my shameful celebrity crush on the one, the only, Neil Patrick Harris. To most people, Neil Patrick Harris is just a washed up child actor of the 80s, but for me, Neil Patrick Harris defines how I've grown to appreciate the male species over the course of my life time. It was as an amorous seven year old that I first discovered Mr. Harris in the form of child genius, Doogie Howser, MD. I mean, he was everything I could have ever wanted in a guy. Smart, witty, good looking, never had to go to school, a doctor, and the most important quality to a seven year old looking for love, he kept a computer diary. Damn, that is sexy. It was Doogie Howser who, to borrow the terminology from the immortal Petula Clark, took me from Crayons to Perfume. Well, maybe not quite perfume, but definitly to the flannel shirt wearing fad of the mid 90s.

Then, after a bit of a Neil hiatus, he re-emerged during my high school years playing Mark Cohen in the LA production of RENT. Now, during high school, RENT was the broadway musical to be into. The play was based upon one of the hottest topics of the mid to late nineties, the music was great, and being at the Nederlander Theatre was a magical experience especially for an only child at the tender age of fifteen trying to rebel from her republican parents by doing the only thing she knew would make them mad: repreatedly listen to a musical not produced by Andrew Lloyd Weber which discussed AIDS within the Gay community of NYC's Greenwich Villiage. It's too bad that RENT is a story about a bunch of starving artitst who thought they were going to make money on their music and film, when in reality, they probably weren't all that talented to begin with (ahem, Mark Cohen). Not to mention the fact that the villian in the plot is the only person with a real job who actually works hard and makes somethinf of himself. Benny, good job, now all you have to do is learn some tact and you're on your way! Anyway, back to Mr. Harris. He followed in the footsteps of Wilson Cruz (of My So Called Life Fame) and picked up the role and he received rave reviews. For me as a fifteen year old idealist, you couldn't get my heart to beat faster than to have a good looking, straight man play the role of the greatest play ever written.

Neil Patrick Harris once again transformed himself in the critically underrated Harold and Kumar Go To White Castle, playing a role he was born to play: himself. It was in this film, that Neil Patrick Harris was transformed into the ultra-hollywood cool: NPH. Clearly on cocaine, hanging out with hookers, and finishing the night at White Castle, this is what hollywood does and NPH exemplifies this to perfection in harold and kumar. Clearly, it is at this stage in my life where I do nothing but read what perez hilton has to say about hollywood that NPH is clearly what I am looking for in a man.

Currently, NPH can be seen on the CBS sitcom, How I Met Your Mother. A show about a guy who is trying to find his soulmate. NPH plays the side character, Barney who is a militant republican working his way up the corporate ladder, regardless of what ethics tell him, and sleeping with as many women along the way as he can find. Now, seeing as I am not in the market to find my soul mate any time soon (or so my godmother tells me, apparently it's ok not to get married... don't worry she brought that statement up out of the blue during dinner this past weekend). So I figure I should take the Barney approach to life.

So, NPH, if you are reading this, feel free to give me a call. I am a life long fan and will continue to crush on you no matter where your acting career may take you. Unless it's to the Sci-Fi network, then we may have some problems.

NPH: Learn It, Live It, Love It,
Anita Mann