What every woman wants

Its the whole package, really. That's what every woman wants.

There's reliability for one thing. Women want reliability. When a job needs to be done, it just needs to be done. No backchatting, no delays, no dithering about tools, no questions. You just need the finished goods, and now will do, right?

You want more than that, though. Wouldn't it be nice if you could have more than one thread handled at a time? I mean, how many balls do you keep bouncing while just trying to explain how to get one job done that you could probably have done yourself anyhow, while doing everything else too? What use is zero tasking to you? Its like having a puppy at your feet and a baby in your arms.

Multitasking. That's what you want. It is not too much to ask for, is it? Just imagine what you could do if your friend, your partner, could multitask, too. The mind boggles, and yet you probably can't even find a guy with a single processor who can handle your modest needs. Or, at least pretty modest. You don't ask for much really, let's face it.

Of course, there are looks. Yes, looks count. Once you go black, you never go back, right? Well, yes and no. Black seems to be the norm these days, but does it really have to be that way? Isn't a bit of variety good, just for a change? Let's not forget height, width, weight: they all count, but now we are talking horses for courses, and at least size and and shapes aren't something you'll ever be stuck for choice over - there is plenty out there on that score. It is just getting all those other things at the same - that's what makes it so hard.

Sigh. What to do? Daydream maybe. Daydream that maybe one day your dream will come true and that package, the kind of package that every woman wants is right where you want it - in your  hands, on your desk, next to you on your sofa, or even just keeping your bed warm. Just for you.

Well, girls, look no further. Here it is. My new friend. My new partner. Everything you ever wanted, except its mine and if you want to take this for a ride it will cost you more than a Diet Cherry Coke to get your hands all over my keyboard. An iPad? No, it is no way near industrial strength, and you have to pay for every application, too. Just look at this: sure, its black but it has a red lid, and how! Cherry red. The lustre is so rich it probably works better than your makeup mirror. That's not all, either -  64 bit Windows 7 Professional running on a dual core processor and 4GB of RAM, and it doesn't talk back. "Oh, tell me more!", I hear you say. Can do. There is MS Office 10 (64 bit to match) and every killer app and hacker's tool you wish your corporate IT department would one day give you - except they won't. Yes, girls, its the dream machine, my dream machine, the machine of all machines, and  it just sits there on my polished English oak for now handling clients, equipment and more, yes so much more from Seattle to Hong Kong - the long way round, from anywhere I want. Don't you wish....? OK. It isn't too heavy on initiative, but don't you just want someone, some THING, any thing, that can just get the job done reliably when YOU want, all day long, all night long, and doesn't this, the model of all models have "multitask me, dar...ling!" rather erotically written all over it with a wink and a smile? Yes please. Talk about sexy.. come on girls, don't you think its time to trade up?

The Big Game

Yes, girls and boys, this is it. The weekend that matters. The big game. No other game in sport matters so much. The booze industry goes into overdrive. People get married. Babies boom. For those who already have have spouses, children, both spouses and children, or who are just otherwise worldly wise, there is still indulgence to be had. Usually, this means housewives wearily preparing annual extravaganzas just like the one the year(s) before with practised robotic tedium in the hope of keeping their loved one at home so that... well, it beats having to retrieve him from his buddy's, or worse still from the bar down the road after the game.

For the less avid sports fan there is the half time show. ....Half time shows. I wonder about half time shows. Why did Janet Jackson really stick her boob out at a half time show once upon a Superbowl? Did she stick it out by accident? Did she stick it out on purpose? Did it stick itself out? Did it look any different than anyone else's? Perhaps I have seen better, but it surely sidelined the game: I cannot even remember who played in that game. I remember the media scrum that the half time show ignited, though!

Come on, girls, even you itch a bit for this game too, don't you? This is "the big game". This is the game of all games. The biggest game. Until next week. Forget the finesse of fencing. Chess is too cerebral for television. Baseball is for shorts and long August bleacher days. There is figure skating: what husband is not all for that, but what husband doesn't watch it avidly just for those pretty, oh so pretty skirts, damn it all?

No, this is the one. Mr Ego, your blossoming household champion, a hero in his very own living room, is going to be lost to his armchair coaching. He will be calling the shots on substitutes, and he will have his own play book. Thanks to his remote control he will be there on the field, too, ducking inside and diving outside..... just like he did when he made the school team. Yes. Once a jock, always a jock. Just in case you forgot last year's recital of the moments of fame, he might remind you of all his sporting moments all over again, just like he does every year!

That chit chat is for the commercial breaks, all of which are probably a lot more interesting by now, thanks to the best behavioural psychologists that money can buy. In between ads, its the game. Forget the commentators. Your very own Joe Cool will be running both teams in resplendent hi def as if he was actually running ON the field with a Sony Bravia remote control for a pigskin and a bottle of Bud for his rehydration. 

The discerning girl will be looking too, perhaps not so much with season statistics in mind as much as DNA options. No skirts on this field. Just big guys, some bigger guys, some faster than others, and some who just have the rest of their team on the field for conversation because they're winning it singlehandedly. All of these guys look after themselves. They are athletes! Why can't all guys look after themselves like these guys do? Problem is, which one do you go for, and of those, which one who is not on some performance enhancing drug? Which one? Ooooh la la! The guy who laughs at pain? The guy with the fancy footwork? The guy with the rock hard buttocks, or the 250lb bulldozer, or just the bull? Which one do you fancy? Maybe it is the jock who interviews well after the game, or perhaps the calm one who has a pair of hands that look like they were made for you?

Whatever. Whether fantasy or whim, we can all forgive ourselves an afternoon off for "the big game" once a year. Let's face it, the rest of the world will be watching too, even as far away as Australia. The game has global appeal - its the best game in the world..... right? 

So there you have it. If you are not a New England Patriots fan then this year there is possibly something called the Superbowl to look forward to as an alternative this weekend. Go Saints. This weekend, though, it is "the big one". The big game. There can be only one. Wales takes on England at Twickenham in their customary red jerseys.  Sport does not get bigger than this, girls and boys. Who wouldn't know about this game? Two forty minute halves with no commercial breaks for sponsors. Bad news for consulting psychologists. People will be watching from as far afield as Adelaide and Buenos Aires, and if you have one of the 82,000 tickets..... well, you will feel the impacts in the stands. No pads. No helmets. If someone dies, there are three substitutes each and after that you just make do. The Romans would love it. I am a Lancashire lad which puts me squarely in the camp of the red rose of England, but I live in Wales where I learned my rugby. I can't lose.


Chin up, girls! It could be worse. So what if you widowed yourself to a Homer who thinks it doesn't get bigger than the Supebowl and XLIV comes from a numbering system jointly developed by British Broadcasting Corporation and Metro Goldwyn Mayer for copyrighting their respective productions? Surely it is not as bad as landing yourself with the only guy in the world who hedges his bets by keeping a team on either side of the Atlantic (the Dolphins are and always will be the only NFL squad to go undefeated in a season!) and who can tell you that England leads the series XII to VI (since 1992, anyhow).