As I alluded to in the comment thread of another of my posts, I'm in no hurry to date. But that hasn't stopped me from joking about it on occasion.
I'm a rather hard girl to please.
For instance, where on Earth am I going to find another conservative man who's honestly not the slightest bit homophobic? Without hanging around Libertarian Party conventions, that is. (Sidenote to that: Never publicly declare yourself a Republican whilst half-drunk in a gay bar.)
I've also made the joke that for my next husband I think I'll have to take a bitter, divorced Chief. Then I realized I was describing my husband's ex-roommate Barksdale and shuddered before sparing a fond thought for his Trans-Am.
Maybe next time I'll have to date only guys with good cars. Rob drove an Escort when I met him. I remember discussing with a friend of mine whether the cowboy hat taking up most of the rear windshield was a good thing or a bad thing. I briefly flirted with a guy who had a '63 or so Impala. I confess, it was all about the car in that relationship.
But there is one definite, incontrovertable new rule for the men I might date in the future:
They have to know who Bob Wills was.
Years ago, when we lived in Hampton Roads, I learned that Asleep at the Wheel was coming to town. As we made plans to go, I enthused happily for some time about their covers of old songs by Bob Wills and His Texas Playboys. (Even now, you are humming "Big Ball's in Cow Town." Admit it.) I started reeling off songs to a blank look from my husband. Turns out, though he's somewhat acquainted with Asleep at the Wheel's western swing work, he thought they were the original artist.