'It's not you, it's me.'

'Oh God. That's exactly what my last three boyfriends said when they dumped me. Is it in the Y-Chromosome User's Manual or something?'

He grinned. 'On page five. But, you know, don't tell anyone I told you.'

Basically, all women are nurturers and healers, and all men are mental patients to varying degrees.

I couldn't take much more of this. Being the object two men competed for wasn't as glamorous as it sounded in the movies. The two men who both wanted one hundred percent of my time weren't dashing, international playboys. They were undead and surprisingly immature, considering the youngest was just over a hundred years old.

On a day like this, we women would be completely and utterly happy just to have a man hold our cold hands and massage our aching backs. We'd be so blissfully happy we wouldn't know what to do with ourselves.
Men are never happy unless they're trying to do the impossible. It's why they roam about the world trying to conquer it.

Women want mediocre men, and men are working hard to be as mediocre as possible

...we've told men for so long that we're equal, we can open our own doors, carry our own bags, pay our own way, that now they're afraid to offer in case we accuse them of sex discrimination. If you were a man would you buy a woman underwear? I wouldn't dare. What if she throws it back in your face and calls you a sexist pig? So they've tried to turn into new men, but that's no good either, because now we're telling them to be masculine. We don't just want them in a pair of Marigolds cleaning the oven, that's not good enough. We want them to take control, to whisk us off hotels, buy us dinner, and make mad passionate love to us all night. We want it all ways. We want them heroes and handy with the vacuum. No wonder the poor guys are confused