BlitzBlog

My wife, a woman of exemplary taste (in men) and superior intelligence, is what I would describe as your typical female, when it comes to communicating with friends. She can spend hours on the phone with Robin or Ellen, and later in the day, spend another hour yakking in person.

Myself, my phone conversations last less than 5 minutes on average. Even with the roughly twice-weekly calls I have with Blue Frog in Baltimore, who can blather on on just about any subject for what sometimes seems like an hour non-stop; except for him, generally, my phone conversations with my buds tend to be short, stupid, and, depending on the day, to the point, or totally pointless.

What do women talk about for such lengths of time? I know Kate and her friends are usually discussing (complaining/bragging) the kids or talking (complaining) about their husbands, as I sometimes hear one end of the conversation. But really!? How much detail does one need?

Oh yes, I know, as much detail as possible, you women-folk will reply. I’ve heard you XX-chromosoned types talking about things- talking about sex- and MY GOD you’re all a bunch of disgusting pigs! The details you go into! I’m positive that all my wife’s friends are fully aware of whatever bizarre proclivities or nuances I might have when she and I are engaged in the Horizontal Bop. I doubt it’s a pretty picture- hell that’s why there are light switches fergodsake- and I can’t help but think that sometimes, at some social function, I’ll be engaged in some witty repartee with one of Kate’s friends, and they’re looking intently at me, not hearing a word I say, as they mentally picture me as one half of the Beast With Two Backs, my face twisted in one hideous ecstatic distortion or another, wondering why in the hell Kate puts up with me.

But for men? If one of my friends’ wives had glow-in-the-dark nipples that could be tuned to shoot colored lasers, I wouldn’t know it. Me and my friends don’t talk about sex much, unless we’re bitching about the lack of it, or perhaps joking about how we’re developing Carpal Tunnel Syndrome from repeated manág-e-moi.

Details? Forget it. I don’t want to mentally-picture my friends naked, nor their wives- not even the hot ones. So forget about details of who likes it how, who’s got the flexibility of a gymnast, and who whispers or screams what.

Let’s be real men. Let’s talk about the game. Or let’s be old men, and talk about what part of us hurts.

As for you and the missus? I hear she’s pissed at you again.