Sorry, Christina -- it was not to be

In this Esquire piece, Christina Hendricks talks about what she wants in a man. Most of her specifications describe your humble host to the proverbial T. Obviously, she is sending a message.

Dare ye scoff, ye scoffing scoffers? Here's the proof...

Any woman who is currently with a man is with him partly because she loves the way he smells. And if we haven't smelled you for a day or two and then we suddenly are within inches of you, we swoon. We get light-headed. It's intoxicating. It's heady.

Just imagine the effect that I would have on you, Christina. You could smell me from yards away. Maybe miles. Parsecs.

When you mention in passing that a certain woman is attractive — could be someone in the office, a woman on the street, a celebrity, any woman in the world, really — your comment goes into a steel box and it stays there forever. We will file the comment under "Women He Finds Attractive." It's not about whether or not we approve of the comment. It's about learning what you think is sexy and how we might be able to convey it.

Okay. When I was entering puberty, I formed a mad crush on St. Bernadette, followed by a mad crush on Ann-Margaret. How would you file that in your steel box, Christina?

We also remember everything you say about our bodies, be it good or bad. Doesn't matter if it's a compliment.

Right, Christina. As if there's a whole list of uncomplimentary things I might say about your body.

Never complain about our friends — even if we do.

I can honestly say that I never have and never will complain about a friend of Christina Hendricks.

Stand up, open a door, offer a jacket.

I do the first two things all the time, even when no women are around. As for my jackets: Christina, you can have either the wool overcoat or the Bogie-style trenchcoat, but not both, because it gets bloody cold out here.

No shorts that go below the knee.

I never wear shorts at all.

Also, no tank tops.

Agreed. Heartily.

No man should be on Facebook. It's an invasion of everyone's privacy. I really cannot stand it.

Christina, this one proves that you read my blog and secretly want me. Cannonfire's legendary campaign against Facebook has cost Mark Zuckerberg a truly immeasurable amount of money.

Panties is a wonderful word. When did you stop saying "panties"? It's sexy. It's girlie. It's naughty. Say it more.

For you, Christina, anything. But why doesn't the word "bra" sound sexy or girlie? Seriously, someone should invent a better word. Or maybe we can use the French term: soutien-gorge. Or maybe we should simplify matters and go with that wonderfully direct Icelandic word: brjóstahaldara. (As everyone knows, Icelandic is the language of love.) You'll adore the way I roll my Rs as I whisper Brjóstahaldara verður að vera eins stór og heimsálfu in your ear...

There are better words than beautiful. Radiant, for instance. It's an underused word. It's a very special word. "You are radiant." Also, enchanting, smoldering, intoxicating, charming, fetching.

And then there's glorious. Dazzling. Superb. Stunning. Exquisite. Pluperfectly prepossessing. Right purty. Being a writer by trade, I know lots of words. But "radiant" is indeed underused.

About ogling: The men who look, they really look. It doesn't insult us. It doesn't faze us, really. It's just — well, it's a little infantile. Which is ironic, isn't it? The men who constantly stare at our breasts are never the men we're attracted to.

As you know, Christina, I long ago developed a superhuman ability to look a woman directly in the eye -- the left eye, because I read somewhere that that's the eye to zero in on -- despite all temptation to gaze elsewhere. I'll be happy to demonstrate.

(Fellas: Proper ogling requires strategy. If she walks across a room, gaze at a spot where she is going to be. Also, the compleat ogler should never overlook the vast possibilities offered by mirrors and windows.)

As I read this list, one message became very clear: Christina wants me. But then it came. The deal-breaker:

We want you to order Scotch. It's the most impressive drink order. It's classic. It's sexy. Such a rich color. The glass, the smell. It's not watered down with fruit juice. It's Scotch. And you ordered it.

Actually, I didn't. Never in my life. Not being much of a drinker, I usually order a beer, just to be sociable. Lately, at home, I've been having the occasional vodka. With fruit juice.

Is it possible? Is it really the case that Christina Hendricks and I were not meant to be?

Damn. I was so close!