"There is no book on women by a man that is not a stupendous compendium of posturings and imbecilities." – H.L. Mencken, 1920

When I was a much younger man, that is to say, much more stupid, I was ensnared in that sticky web that the female of the species weaves, between the twigs of the very bush a man is likely to stroll by. I was ensconced, forthwith, in the state of connubial bliss. Which is to say, I was married. I married at what was, then, considered a reasonable age (21 years old) and a reasonable time (after graduation from university). In fact, my marriage would have blessed by Dr. Phil, Jacqueline Sussan and the Pope as it befell me at what would generally be considered optimal circumstances: timing, choice of spouse, future prospects and genealogy. The timing has been already reviewed. The choice of mate was the average in both appearance and intellect, which is not to say breeding and social status - these being of not the least concern to the young, in amour. The future prospects, that is to say, earning potential of the husband, were above average. Finally, the subtle but pressing genealogy: I was, sadly, the last male in the line of the Albright clan, my father’s 3 brothers spawning only 4 females, I was the last and best hope of perpetuating the lineage by producing a male.

Thus, the oldest and grandest of games, holy matrimony, was undertaken. With this experience, long since brought to its inevitable and tragic (at least for the man) end, I endeavor to glance astern with the hope of lending a modicum of analysis to what would seem a representative duel of the sexes. I undertake the exercise to, first, show that even the brightest of men can fall to such sordid depths and, second, to elucidate some of the traps that lay in the path of all those who so venture forth. In the end, this may serve to forewarn those unsuspecting souls of what awaits the young, the stupid and "in love." Let us begin the journey to enlightenment.

I will skip over the courtship process for a latter time. It is no less perilous but the urgency of revealing the perils of the actual union takes precedence. We will assume that courtship has been completed, the aisles have been trod and the vows have been duly witnessed and recorded. It is this very instance that the game is afoot.

Once the wretched male has been formally snared, the female is free to commence her devilry. The instant the "I do’s" have been recorded by the attending clergy, solemn witnesses and the courts, the prey (that would be you, Buster) is rightly had. If the woman has even a tad of respect for tradition, she will delay her seige until after whatever honeymoon they may enjoy. After this tragically brief interlude, she begins to mold her dangling, sequestered quarry into the snugly bed warmer she always wanted. Battle lines are drawn and all battle stations are manned and ready.

The weaponry she brings to the field of honor are formidable. Being ignorant of the banalities to which her brute has devoted millions of neurons, her lesser (but imminently formidable) mental capacities can be focused, with laser-like accuracy, to the task at hand. In brief, enucleating, neutering and reprogramming her beloved. He may not have been her first choice or even her 2^nd or her Nth, but - with the grace and will of God - she will transform her frog into a prince or he will die in the trying.

And she sets about her appointed task with the conviction, energy and viciousness befitting a gay rights or P.E.T.A. activist. In my particular situation, the barrage began innocently enough, over a period of a few years. Thus, like the folklore of how to boil a frog, the heat was raised so imperceptively that, by the time I become aware of the assailment, the process was half done. I was cooked, so to speak, before I noticed the pungent aroma of cooked me.

In my particularly unfortunate situation, my betrothed’s weapon-of-choice was the subtle but very effective rapier psychologists label "passive-aggressive behavior". According to the revised third edition (DSM-III-R, 1987), someone can be diagnosed with Passive-Aggressive Personality Disorder (PAPD) if they displayed five or more of the following behaviors: (1) procrastinates, (2) sulks or argues when asked to do something she doesn't want to do, (3) works inefficiently on unwanted tasks, (4) complains without justification of unreasonable demands, (5) "forgets" obligations, (6) believes she is doing a much better job than others think, (7) resents useful suggestions, (8) fails to do her share, or (9) unreasonably criticizes authority figures. That, gentle reader, was my beloved.

Adding to the web of control thus spun, she had the singular knack of feigning helplessness. If one of the children had a doctor’s appointment, she made sure to schedule it with a physician whose office she had absolutely no idea of getting to and would proceed to schedule the appointment when I was to be at work. Thus, she could use the "You have to drive me there a couple of times so that I will know how to get there on time" gambit. So, with three kids requiring these sorts of attention, I could count on spending most Sunday afternoons driving back and forth to the doctor’s office, a minimum of 2 and, more often 3 or 4 times, with my amour parked in the passenger seat appearing to be taking detailed notes. Despite my efforts, I would dutifully get a call 15 minutes before the little tike’s appointment. And hear a frantic "I’m lost! What do I do now?" I would, chivalrous that I once was, attempt to talk her to her destination. "Do you remember the Krystal just before we got to the office? No? OK, how about the Wal-mart just down the street? No? Have you seen the big Standard Oil station we saw when we had gone past the office the first time?" Invariably, she would find the office just in the nick of time. One would think - and I did - that it was all part of the sinister chess game she was playing with my, by now, throbbing head.

There were many other examples but these would prove to be redundant if not enlightening. It will suffice to say that I felt much like the fox, interviewed after the hunt, who remarked: "I sure made those dogs run, didn’t I?"

In another of the mental facilities that women thoroughly trounce their knuckle-dragging bed mates is the capacity of recall. It would appear, on my cursory examination, that the mind of man, cluttered as it is by NASCAR standings, batting averages and his team’s bowling average and further clouded by a couple of beers, is simply full. There are no unoccupied nooks or crannies in which he can store away important items like: what she was wearing when they first met, the date and circumstance of their first overnighter, the first occasion he brought her flowers or what was the last meal she cooked for him. These are all very significant to the female and, trust me, she can dredge up the exact details at any instant. It would appear, at least with even superficial scrutiny, that the female mind is not only quicker and more skilled in the diabolical arts but it is also, despite its smaller size, has a much more efficient storage scheme. Women, God Bless ‘em, commit to galvanized memory the most diverse array of trivia relating to their courtship and marriage and, with a speed exceeding anything mimicked by Intel, can bring it into play at any hour of any day. Be they drunk, pregnant, menstruating or even post-orgasmic, the female will spring the memory game into play, to her advantage, at - for the male - the most inopportune time.

Say you are in the midst of discussing finances, generally the man’s forte, and he is making a point that when expenditures exceed income, that is a situation that cannot be allowed to continue indefinitely. Maybe, the male is starting to dwell into more esoteric concepts of finance like the interest rates on credit cards, why everything at Wal-mart is not necessarily a "good deal" or why it might not be necessary to have 42 colors of eye shadow or lipstick. The female, to stop this useless twaddle can simply spring the memory game on the gristled Cro-magnon with the audacity to bore her with such nonsense. She will suddenly take his massive, hairy paw in her dainty mitts, and with the combined smile-sweetly-and-flutter-her-eyelashes gambit, shyly query: "Sweetheart, do you remember the first time we went to the movies?" Of course, it may have been 12 years ago, but the troglodyte knows she demands an answer. As the dust flies in his cranium and his three functioning neurons desperately search for the information, his eyes go blank and his palms sweat. Sensing this, the female slides the blade in a little deeper: "Darling, don’t you remember?" He panics. His heart, now racing, his head, beginning to pulse painfully, all he can think of is how many beers he has left in the fridge. Game Over! She ends the tedious discussion of finances by blotting her eyes adding a dainty sniff, snatching her petite hands away and leaps from the table, uttering the coup de gras: "You just don’t love me anymore!" As he sits, befuddled and downtrodden (still, I might add, trying to recall the name of the movie from 12 years back), he spends the rest of the evening (the week?) trying to assuage his guilt and return to her warm bed. She, of course, doesn’t give the matter a second thought but, playing the string out, will endeavor to impersonate the wounded lamb for as long as she deems it necessary. The beauty of the memory game is that it has no end point and all the questions are hermetically sealed in her lovely little head.

Women, and I am convinced that my 24 nightmarish years with Purgatory Annie are not a rarity, are just smarter than the hairy-knuckled, grunting, unhygienic, mentally-inferior, in brief, the male of the species. What females may give up in poundage, height and strength they greatly endowed with the mystical talent of identifying their cave dweller’s weak points and just which of his buttons can be safely pushed without eliciting revolt. At this, women are Babe Ruth, Mata Hari and Einstein all rolled into one petite package. And, once they have mastered you, mind and body - and, have no doubt, my fellow primitive, they will - you are the frog - cooked before you ever noticed the water was boiling.

This is not to blame anyone in the duel of the sexes. Moral judgements are not part of my character. Women, as women are wont to do, first seek security (the illusion of which they obtain with marriage) and, second, they set diligently about molding their world as they had envisioned it. You, as the primary breadwinner (usually) and designated warming pot for cold feet, are a big part of the nest she plans. And molding you is part of the process. You may, grunting and snarling, initially, dare to proclaim that "You are the man and you’re the master of the house." The Bible might even back you up. And, early on, she will nod in acquiescence, rub your hirsuite beer-belly and smile that smile that always melts all resistance. All along, in her heart of hearts, she knows the truth. She is Lance Armstrong and you are a French cyclist. She is better equipped in the arts of pair bonding than you can ever hope to be. You are overmatched (think the Spartan 300 at the Battle Of Thermopylae) beyond all your comprehension and have absolutely no chance at success. In Also Spake Zarathusta, Nietzsche discussed the inevitable coming of the "Superman". Note to Frederick: The Superwoman has been striding amongst us for decades and they live among us still.

And, when your path crosses the Athena, be prepared to yield. She is sufficiently evolved to rule her domain and you, the poor, hapless, defenseless male, are hers to do with as she pleases. Resistance is futile; she is controlling transmission. Fortunately, there are certain perks, you might as well enjoy it.

What choice do you have?