July 26, 2006
Women are talkers.
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: Whatdya think?
Rick: I think they sucked.
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 a beer.
I find I'm doing my best communicating with Karen while I'm watching a baseball game. It is telepathic communication. I also communicate with her when I'm napping and when I'm cleaning my truck. We discuss every nuance of our lives; 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 from work and sit down at the table with the paper.
Karen: How was work, darling?
Karen: Tell me everything. I want to hear all the details.
Rick: I went, I worked, I left.
Karen: How's Ro? How's Kitty? How's Carey? How's Mariah?
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 yard, and at 6:21 I started reading it. There was an excellent article about a Swahillian tribesman who learned how to hunt eels with his toes . . . let me tell you all about it!
Rick: Pass the mashed potatoes.
Karen: Anyhow, when the tribesman was an embryo . . .
Though women will tolerate talking to men for nine hours in a row, 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 Mary!
Mary: Hi, what are you up to?
Karen: I just got home from Donna's house!
Mary: How was it?
Karen: Actually, no. You know how she gets.
Mary: Tell me about it!
Karen: She makes that annoying little gesture when she talks . . .
Mary: I know the one. I hate that!
Karen: And it's always about her!
Mary: That's all she ever talks about!
Karen: It's a terrible habit!
Mary: It drives me crazy!
Karen: Anyhow, let me tell you about my day . . .
Men, you know you're in for a lot of misery when you hear your wife order the trillion minute plan from your cell phone company. If you buy into the real possibility that listening to women talking over the phone is the worst form of torture ever foisted on man, think of how sadistic God must be for inventing the cell phone. It guarantees no relief short of sudden death from the malady of excruciating small talk.
I predict coming generations will witness an amazing phenomenon. Just as fish evolved over centuries to form gills in order to survive, so will women form a cell phone that will morph into the ear for an eternity of hands-free chatter.
You name the occurrence, 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. 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.