By Tim Sanders

First, to answer Mr. DeForest R. Green of Leesburg, I’m not sure, but I believe I’ve already reviewed the new Denzel Washington movie, "Deja Vu." If you would like further insight into that particular phenomenon, you may want to read the following column twice.

Or you may want to read the following column twice.

Last week Post editor Scott Wright sent me an article about the book "The Female Mind" by Dr. Louann Brizendine, a neuropsychiatrist at the University of California, San Francisco. Dr. Brizendine has sent shock waves through the academic community by stating in her book that, after years of exhaustive research and clinical analyses, she’s determined that a large majority of women are either genetically or emotionally incapable of belching the entire phrase, "Jeremiah was a bullfrog."

Of course, I am only kidding. A distinguished San Francisco neuropsychiatrist would never invest years and years of research into a book concluding that women can’t belch and talk simultaneously. No, this distinguished San Francisco neuropsychiatrist actually invested years of research into a book that concluded–ready for this–that women talk three times as much as men! Shocker, eh? Well, here’s a summary of what that article revealed:

1. The average woman speaks 20,000 words in a day - 13,000 more than the average man.

2. Talking releases brain chemicals which give women a rush similar to that felt by heroin addicts.

3. Dr. Brizendine thinks this may be due to a lack of testosterone in the female brain.

4. On the other hand, men have gallons of testosterone in their craniums, which prompts them to think about sex once every 52 seconds. Women think about sex only once a day. This results in a sex-thinking ratio of approximately 1660 to 1, and a good deal of marital conflict.
 

Armed with these frightening statistics and a pencil, I went in search of the average American couple. I accessed the files of the American Bureau of Really Meaningless Statistics, and found the address of the average American couple. Imagine my delight to learn that they lived in Rainbow City, Alabama. I paid them a visit, to see if Dr. Brizendine’s theories held any water. Factually, I mean.

A very normal-looking lady answered the door at 100 O’Keed Oak Lane. I introduced myself, and told her I was on a fact-finding mission. She invited me in:
"I’m Doreen Average, and over on the couch is my husband, Bill Q." Bill had a fistful of cheese puffs, and crumbs on his face.

I told them I’d like to ask them a few questions about the differences between men and women, and Doreen looked a bit surprised. Bill was engrossed in something or other on TV.

"Well, I suppose it’s all right," Doreen said. "The children are mostly at school."

"Mostly?"

"We’re never too sure about little Duh. He’s hard to keep track of."

"Did you say ‘Duh’?"

"Yes, we have 1.5 children, which is the national average in a two-parent household where one parent works at Goodyear. We named them Brooks and Duh. Actually it’s spelled D-U, but it sounds like ‘Duh.’ Had the national average been 1.75, we could have spelled it ‘D-U-N’ and all one-and-three-quarters of them would have had a country music career waiting for them. We also have one-quarter of a black Lab hopping around here somewhere. It’s the hindquarter, so watch your step."

I could sense that our interview was headed in the wrong direction. "Let’s talk about the differences between men and women," I said.

"HAH!" Doreen said. "How much time do you have, and where would you like to begin? When I was just three years old my mother told me–say, how old do you think I am? Oh, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking late twenties, right? Well I don’t like to brag or anything, but I’ve always looked young for my age. I take really good care of my skin, and use a lot of cocoa butter and–now where was I? Oh yes, mother. She said that all I had to do was look at my father and I’d see just what a bunch of miserable ..."

She went on for quite some time, building up a healthy head of steam, while her husband, Bill, sat watching highlights of the 1998 Rose Bowl game on ESPN’s Classic channel. I remembered that game fondly. Michigan beat Washington State 21-16, and split the national title with Nebraska. Bill offered me a cheese puff, and I accepted. There were only 16 seconds left in the game, and Washington State had moved the ball to Michigan’s 47 yard line. I’d forgotten all about Doreen. Occasionally words like "mood swings," "self awareness," or "Oprah" would filter through, but they meant nothing to me. Bill Q. Average and I were watching one of the greatest Rose Bowls of all time, which transcended feminine chit-chat.

After the game ended, Doreen finally paused to catch her breath. The sudden silence reminded me of my mission. Since Bill Q. had not yet uttered a word, and since his wife had already delivered a stirring stump speech, I directed the next question to him. "How often do you think about sex?"

He glanced furtively at Doreen, and then said, "That’s my wife over yonder. What can I say?"

I would have pursued that line of questioning, but I didn’t have to. "SEX?" Doreen exclaimed. "May I answer that?" It was only a rhetorical question. She proceeded to tell me all about the stress of being a wife and a mother, and the dramatic difference between dating and marriage, and how important feelings were, and all about PMS, and how her husband was always leering at those female volleyball players on TV when he thought she wasn’t looking, and how she’d found an old cardboard box in the attic with dozens of those Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Editions in it, and how Bill Q. Average was a sick, twisted man who needed to pay a visit to Dr. Phil. She said that sex was all he ever thought about, outside of football. She said she thought about sex only once or twice a week, when she had what she called her "Fabio time." I told her I didn’t need to hear more, but Bill told me I might as well just let her go on.

"If she stops talking for too long, she goes into withdrawal and starts to shake and sweat. She went grocery shopping last week and forgot her cell phone. She wound up in the emergency room. They had to give her a cordless phone, a cell phone, a microphone and an amplifier."

Doreen insisted on telling me more about Fabio, and how sometimes, late in the evening, she enjoyed watching a video she’d taped of the male model in an old I Can’t Believe it’s Not Butter commercial.

Bill Q. could tell that I was getting uneasy, and cleared my path to the door with what was probably an illegal block in the back. No flags were thrown, and I sprinted to my car.

Since I’m an average guy myself, I don’t think I need to explain what I learned in the Average household. Other guys will get it–after that Rose Bowl, Michigan should have won the national title outright.

You women, on the other hand, will just have to get together and talk it out.