venus, indeed

one of the things i've always enjoyed in my profession is the opportunity for aural voyeurism. the snippets often are out of context, so likely are more amusing to me than the dinner partners enduring them.

but night after night, all these years, i'm always struck at how differently men and women communicate with each other. a table of guys will glide over their work, the red sox, their portfolios, their cars, their lawns, recent or upcoming vacations and their kids. all the while, they will easily decide what to order; they'll consume courses in a relatively quick fashion, be done with the dinner and be on their on their ways back home or to the hotel.

a gaggle of women is a whole 'nother story. most of them will be late. they all will have to tell each how great she looks. they all will say they're not hungry, and fuss about what to have and negotiations about how much and whether to share will be intense. menu selections will fall by the wayside when the subject of so-and-so's wedding arises. and again screech to halt while everybody admires mary's new ring. the decision on whether to order *a bottle* of wine (GASP!!!) will make the kyoto agreement pale in comparison. to most of them the committment is far too daunting. the server and sommelier will hover discreetly, trying to get a flicker of acknowledgement that progress is being made. days later, at last, they order. somehow, someone will manage to cut 4 wontons into 9 servings. dinner progresses at a myopic snail's pace. they will cluck about their kids, their shoes, their neighbors, possibly work and their husbands. oh, the husband. his foolishness, his foibles, his failings. why do they bond over spousal haplessness instead of donning a cheerleader outfit and rah-rahing all night long? they pretend their kids are smarter, taller, prettier than everybody else's (percentiles, my ass) and yet their mates are hopeless. well, without her and her guiding hand, of course.

here is where i get lost in my gender. i was raised strictly that dirty laundry never is to be aired in public. facing bankruptcy or widowhood? "i'm fine," and he "has a terrible cold," were the appropriate responses. anything more, reveals business not to be shared.

why do the majority of women take pleasure in making their mates look like dufuses? do they need that niggling to bolster their inner scaredy-cat? why do they need others to think they reign supreme over the neanderthal on the lazy-boy? and if the guy is such a cretin, why did she marry him anyway? that they spend hours dawdling over fallen chocolate cake and not going home does speak to me. every time.

the women here live a squalid life suffocated by absence of choice.

but she with the hefty ira and hybrid car has the luxury of many emotional options.

oh, and me? i'm fine.