I'm not sure if any of those things are true any more (except #4 but that one was almost "boys go to Mars to get candy bars and girls go to Jupiter to get more stupider"). I was, clearly, out of my element. So, I listened intently, read all of our articles, and sometimes even peeked in the other ladies' magazines that were lying around the office (who knew Eva Longoria had that much to say?). But where were all the sweet invites to parties with unhealthily thin people drinking dirrrrrrrrty Martinis while hoping that tiny women in pointy shoes think they're cool? Where was the late-night, underwear-only pool crashes with the cast and crew of a sexy photo shoot? And where the hell was an invitation to the red carpet premiere of Scary Movie 4? Maybe it was a down year for magazines, I mean Time's Person Of The Year was me that year. Or maybe I was in charge of the bricks and mortar so that the ladies could go shake it up and be sure that the place wouldn't be ransacked by ravenous compliment-seekers looking under every rock, desk, iMac, and water cooler while they chatted up Christopher Meloni (and failed to ask him about his role as Gene in Wet Hot American Summer).
And it turns out that being in an office full of ladies wasn't much different than being in an office of mixed company. They didn’t all share the same menstrual cycle (Christ, maybe they did). The place didn't smell like a perfume factory (nor a French whorehouse). Sometimes a few of them even drank beer. And not even once did I get seriously propositioned to prove that I like girls. Though I did pull the HR card once or twice when the questions got a little too familiar for my taste (yes, Kenneth, there is a Santa Claus).
Sure I learned a few things about grown-up relationships along the way. Mostly that people do crazy things, honesty is good, and two-way communication is prett-y important. I didn't learn the magic word that makes underpants fall off, I didn't learn how to win every argument, and I didn't learn how to 'blow up' any lady with a single touch (though I'm firmly convinced the female orgasm exists, baby steps). Yep, it's all still a mystery. I should probably think about giving Sean Avery and the New Jake a call to compare notes.
*It's a fake name, no one is named Donna anymore.
**Good call, Dad.