Guest blogger Dani Klein Modisett: I love the scent of vanilla citrus candles (soy only), the smell of the belly-button looking part of a ripe cantaloupe, 400 count Egyptian cotton sheets, a good psychic -- one who can convince me that she senses my "energy" and tells me I've "done my work" and that she can "feel it." I love peeling garlic and throwing it in oil that is heated to just the right sizzle in an All-Clad fry pan, and everything Kiehl's (except their Tea Tree Shampoo, which dries my hair out). I love cashmere socks and a whole slew of other sensory stimulants that my husband either doesn't know about, doesn't care about, or mocks.

My husband is so not gay.

Not that he's a Joe Sixpack either. He's not a sports enthusiast at all in fact. But he comes from strong mid-western stock and all of my aforementioned favorite things are completely lost on him. When I started thinking I should start looking for a man I could spend more than three entertaining months with, i.e. a husband, (a brief window in time after a rather "free-spirited" decade), metrosexuals hadn't surfaced as a male food group yet. Sure, I had the French model boyfriend for a summer and he was sensual. But he lived with a much older male French film director who hated me for unspoken reasons. And there was the thick-lipped law student who shopped at Barney's, loved to chop zucchini in perfect cubes, and bought me my first ceramic oil burner, but by the time we broke up I was pretty sure "metro" was not the accurate prefix for his sexuality.

Where was the Ryan Seacrest in the dating pool in 1998? And if I did meet him, would I have gone for it? I had a thing about not dating anyone who took longer to get ready to go out than I did -- and I only wear lipstick and leave the house with my hair wet.

I got the guy's guy I deserve.

P.S. Last Saturday my better half went out by himself and came home two hours later with noticeably groomed feet.

"Fancy," I said.

"Dry skin," he mumbled.

Just when you think you know a person.