Where is Yoda when you need him?

Since time began, it's been a battle of the sexes… There are two sides. In the blue corner, weighing in at 529 pounds (including ego): The Man, stalking prey in the jungles of history, competing to be the ultimate Hunter/Gatherers. What the hell are they hunting for? Quite simply, a larder full of provisions to trade for the precious currency of affection and heirs. It's the business of pursuit.

In the opposite pretty pink corner, weight undisclosed for obvious reasons: The Woman. In the economy of love, the reserve bank; the centre of currency production, financial policy summit meetings and committee decision-making on procedures and strategy. So really, the battle of the sexes is no battle at all, but an open economy of trade and negotiation. How can it go wrong?

At least in battle, there are rules of engagement. Both sides follow the Art of War, attacking, defending, counter-attacking and turning tail, running like mad in the other direction. It was a carefully choreographed dance of courting. In primitive times, the dance was simple yet aggressive. Man brings food, Woman accepts food, Man bonks woman on the noggin with big stick, Woman produces child, if you know what I mean. The semi-conscious disco could be danced as many times as required, with many partners, until the dinosaurs ate you for breakfast.

In medieval times, it was a decadent ball set in a soap opera. There was drama, jousting, to-ing and fro-ing. With the dawn of the stock market, the jiving ceased. The Providers of safety and stability laid down their swords and sequins, moving into an arena of buying and selling. A State of Mating where black market trading is totally unacceptable.

This shift in tactics has left a Yoda-less void. Rising to the top of the pile of applicants are the garishly front-covered, fast-paced media of fashion and lifestyle magazines. Bikini clad bodies giving the best advice on packaging, primping and people-screening. This is alright, any assistance in the navigating the stockmarket of relationships is appreciated. My "quibble" is with the quality of the advice. Men get good practical advice, for instance: 'How to stop dry eyes while working at the computer….. Blink.'. Women are given by their bibles: 101 ways to pleasure him, 50 ways to deceive him and 21 ways to knock him out and bury the body.

How useful is this information to finding your one true life partner? You definitely will be able to entice him, deceive him and surprise him by following the latest advice in Cosmo by pressing his 'perineum'. First you have to find it, by navigating some serious potholes, and then apply pressure. This will cause your man to jump up, hurdle over the bed and run screaming down the road. It would be far more constructive just to blink.

Terrible advice columns, however entertaining, undermine the very partnering that is required to ensure the continuation of the battle, dance or trade of the sexes. I am therefore, dedicating my blog to the Art of Trade. I have no idea what sage advice I can dice into the pork pot roast, but it's got to be better than: Find his G-spot, and he will love you FOREVER.

(Love is) The Tender Trap

How many times have you heard your mother say, “In my day...”. Yes, yes. In your day the world was a better place, pollen didn’t make you sneeze ‘cause the snuff was blocking your nose, one never got cold ‘cause we were drenched in fur and one never got sore ‘cause The Help did everything for you. Today, the world is a dreadful place. We suffer from black lung from fossil fuel (a modern invention of bad taste), your eyes and nose never stop running thanks to allergens such as bread, milk and other staples that keep the Third World alive, day to day. Is it true? Have we really gone backward?

You see a pair of laughing eyes, and suddenly you’re sighing sighs. Ah, the golden age of Crooners, the All American song book with black and white men illustrating every page, who weren’t exactly hot... but no lady could decline. We’d sip a Jack or a Johnnie out of a Stuart in a smoky leather lounge. Its a grayscale fairy-tale of Hollywood proportions.

Love today, its in full colour. I know what I want, when I want it. It has got so bad, that a friend of mine courting a psychedelic student was informed over their first acquaintance coffees together, the number of children, the size of the diamond and the year of the Wedding (which is not in the Chinese calendar, if you know what I mean). My mother was horrified. But this is the multi-hued romance of the 21st century. If you don’t want what I want, let’s not have a drink in a smoky bar and waste each others time. Women have lost the art of the tender trap.

We’re honest, brash and brazen. We don’t accept drinks for fear of spiking, we won’t accept rides cause we drive better than you do (my insurance quote says so) and I will not be wasting my time with you, unless you submit to my demands immediately after meeting me. We’re not dating, we’re taking hostages!

Did my grandmother have it right? I don’t think so, because even if she was right, I have the right to vote. I also have the right to earn more money than Dean, which is something Debbie Reynolds never achieved. And although Debbie got a kiss, a wink and a smooth smile, she never got her name above old blue-eyes and the boys. So no, we’ve come a long way. I for one am not going back, because although we could’ve smoked guilt-free with the Marlboro man, we would have died a painful mucus-y death alone, never knowing the joy of a Rat Pack Tribute concert with your true love by your side. We may not have romance, but we have Double Income No Kids.