Rob's Great Conclusion.

…When last seen, our anti-dexterous demi-hero dangled over a cliffhanger, suspended by a promise to Paula Puremom, and a licorice whip.

"AAAAAHHHHHHH!"

Yeah, the gaping maws of expectations will eat you every time. You all came here expecting a thrilling ride through Rob's mind but found nothing there.

"This way to the Egress."

See, that's the beginning of our conclusion, and honestly it's the key to everything. Thank you and good night!

Women are complex creatures. They work with the fine tuning of Swiss calibration. One cog out of sync sends the whole system into tumult. Guys? We're a paddle, a ball, and a string.

You want to see my theory in action? Take Paula's post and present it to 100 women. What you'll get is one great nod wave of a bobble-head army. Present it to 100 men and you'll be blinded by incoherent stares. You could have just asked 100 toddler males to solve for Y. Same result. It's all right, just give us something shiny. That's our reset button; we'll revert to default.

"Look it's a pen!"

Ever since Eve stabbed Adam with an apple corer, man has tried to figure out what he did wrong. We've failed. We get it. What's more, every time we think we understand how to get it right, you women all gather in the ladies room for a DEFCON strategy session and change the rules.

"Look Sarah, you need to complain--he's treating you too much like a girl…I know, but you need to take this one for the team here. Thanks. Kendra, from here out: You hate sex. We're all so sorry, but we did draw straws..."

The war between the genders is a horrible thing, because nobody wins, and yet we're both fighting for the same thing: to make you happy. That's it. That's the big secret.

Sure Paula is right, there are pot smoking jobless Xboxers out there, and what's more, they're usually charming as hell. We men call them "boy-coys." (Ok, not really but we should. It's really catchy...) They're used to thin the herds. Cuz see, men want women of quality, and frankly we usually can't tell the difference once you're close enough to smell. Boy-coys are smoking chaff to weed out the dangerous and infirmed.

And that's fine because we know you float the 20 year old bikini models past us to knock off the wandering drake. It's fair. So Paula wants a guy who can respect her as a woman, and treat her like a lady. I want a woman who cares whether I'm listening to her talk, and not just dropping in the random "uh-huh" to placate her. I'd actually love her to say something interesting, rather than sounding out banal chatter as sonar to find her way around the room so she can do tiny tasks. I'm awestruck by a woman who'll sit across a table from me and say, "you know what I find fascinating…" and is willing to prove that it really is!

And yet with every sit-com cut out fed to us, people like Paula and I find our desires taste more and more like gall and bile. Our battlefield general-ities say our counterparts don't exist. The problem is: they do, and they're looking for us, but are lost on the other side of the paper doll battle ground.

I know Paula's disgruntled about working with boys, but that doesn't mean she has to take pop-shots at the rest of us. I came in bearing gifts of chocolate and platitudes, I swear! She's frustrated. I get it, but so am I. I have a side too, as does every other man who missed the cookie cutter gene.

You know what we hate? We hate:

Women who don't want to stay home and be a housewife, but complain about having to go to work. Women who can't handle money. Women who can't take time to understand that men have a grown child gene, but don't have the natural child rearing gene. It's a learned thing. Work with us, and a real man will try. I swear he will, but don't just bitch because we can't wrap a diaper like a tortilla before baby kickboxer decides it's time to shower the world with love. We hate women who hate us for not having friends, when we've dedicated our lives to making the woman happy; while the other friends in our lives fell away, we kept our focus on who was important. We hate men who can't respect women too, but we also hate women who have no compassion for men. We hate anybody who has nothing interesting to say. We hate women who complain about how we tip. We hate women who hate the way we drive, and make gasping noises in the passenger seat while pumping an imaginary break, clinging to the "oh shit!" bar, but refuse to drive themselves. "No, it's ok, you drive just fine--WATCH OUT!" We hate women who won't help or teach us to unhook garters. We love that you wear them, but since we don't wear them ourselves they might as well be Ikea furniture, cuz we haven't got a clue. We hate women who "don't care" what wine we get, but roll their eyes when we chose the wrong one, when even the waiter has the courtesy to coach us through the "sample" process. What's more, I hate women who don't laugh at my jokes!

There I've said it! Do I feel better? No, not at all. It didn't fill that void waiting for a women who understands me. I don't think Paula felt better either, but I can't speak for her, I'm not a woman. The problem is we approach this thing like an offensive. If both sides took time away from drawing up lists of things they hate, and shared the things they loved with the person across the table, the hate list would gradually disappear. Everything about sex, love, and marriage comes down to communication.

"uhm…no, not there…"

If we share our expectations, the right partner will ignite them. The wrong partner will light up like a flare. If you're expecting a psychic, you'll get the con artist every time.

So if I agree with Paula, why am I taking so much time and space to argue with her? Because, that's how the genders cross communicate.