Women like to talk.
Be it in person or on the phone, women seem enamored with long, probing conversations, absorbed and engrossed in the intricacies of even the minutest happenings.
Men are more to the point:
Joe: You watch the game?
Joe: What did ya think?
Rick: The Giants played like crap.
Women, on the other hand, are incapable of brevity. They, by their very nature I presume, meander:
Karen: Hello, Pam?
Karen: I want to tell you about my day.
Pam: Tell me about your whole week!
Karen: It's been quite a year!
Pam: Tell me from the beginning!
Karen: Well, when I was an embryo . . .
Women are the only species of human, mammal, sub-human, insect, vegetable or any other living thing that can actually spend hours talking about talking:
Karen: Rick, we need to talk . . .
Karen: It's important that we talk . . .
Rick: About what?
Karen: About communicating with each other.
Rick: What about it?
Karen: I think it's important.
Rick: What is?
Karen: Communicating. We need to talk about it.
Karen: For the next nine hours.
Rick: What is there to talk about?
Karen: Let's talk about that.
Karen: What we need to talk about.
Karen: It's important we communicate.
Rick: Get me another beer.
I find I'm doing my best communicating with Karen while I'm watching a ballgame. It is called telepathic communication. I also communicate with her when I'm napping and when I'm driving around in my truck. We discuss every nuance of her life; she just doesn't remember.
Take dinner. When I was growing up, our father taught us how important it was for a family to eat together and bond as a family unit. We did this by watching Dad read The Racing Form.
Nowadays, I like to honor his memory by reading the sports section. As most of my co-workers know, I always read the newspaper when I eat. It's a habit. I don't bother anyone. I don't annoy anyone. I sit quietly, eat and read the sport section. (OK, in the interest of full disclosure, I should point out I probably do bother people because I chew with my mouth open and burp and belch frequently.)
I'll come home after work and sit down at the table with the newspaper.
Karen: How was work, darling?
Karen: Tell me everything. I want to hear all the details.
Rick: I went, I worked for eight hours, I came home.
Karen: How's everybody at The Indy?
Rick: I dunno.
Karen: I had a great day. I woke up at 6:15, and at 6:16 I put up coffee, and at 6:18 I got The Times from the front lawn, and at 6:21 I started reading it. There was an excellent article about a Swahillian tribeswoman who learned how to hunt eels with her toes . . . let me tell you all about it!
Rick: Pass the mashed potatoes.
Karen: Anyhow, when the tribeswoman was an embryo . . .
Though women will tolerate talking to men for hours, the true genius of their babble is only brought out by another female. Girls talking about girls — your basic gossip — is elevated to an art form.
Karen: Hi Dianne!
Dianne: Hi, what are you up to?
Karen: I just got home from Donna's house!
Dianne: How was she?
Karen: Actually, no. You know how she gets.
Dianne: Tell me about it!
Karen: She makes that annoying little gesture when she talks . . .
Dianne: I know the one. I hate that!
Karen: And it's always about her!
Dianne: That's all she ever talks about!
Karen: It's a terrible habit!
Dianne: It drives me crazy!
Karen: Anyhow, let me tell you about my day . . .
You name the occasion; women like to talk about it.
After making love they talk, you snore.
If you go to the movies, women like to have long conversations about every nuance of the film – during the film. I limit myself to a few exclamations like, "It was really cool when he sliced up the bad dude with the machete and all the guts came out," but Karen doesn't consider those types of movies "films." She likes the kind where nothing happens for three hours except — you guessed it — talk.
Then she likes to talk about it.