I respect women because women create life, you work 9-5 then come home and run the household while the husband watches the game. You often dress well (even if the clothes aren't Cristian Dior, I know few women who sag their pants and wear dirty t-shirts 3 sizes too big). Overall, women are the WORLD'S GREATEST MULTI-TASKERS. By the time a husband has figured out his son's 3rd grade math equation, his wife has cooked dinner, let the dog out, checked and double-checked the math assignment, read little Emily a story and put her to bed. The husband is still trying to figure out if X=3. (Don't believe women are smarter? Check gender statistics for college grads). I'm not saying women run the house out of obligation or because it's your role, you just seem naturally better at being able to successfully address multiple issues, especially adapting under pressure. So.. My dog got loose and ran around the complex 50 million times before I caught her. I put her back inside and stepped on the bacony to smoke a cig. My GORGEOUS ex-roommate (jamaican, medium skin, light island accent) called and said he was going to the gym but would stop by. Ideal right?? WRONG. My head wasn't combed, I was sweaty from chasing Billie, and come inside to find that she'd crapped in the living room. My bed reeked because I'd been farting in it all afternoon (no that bad smell in your bedroom isn't a nearby busted sewer, men far in bed A LOT). I was wearing the Dickies shirt i sleep in and b-ball shorts and I've got an Island hottie about twenty minutes away from knocking on my door. Now a regular man in this situation would've thrown on a hat, ignored the smelly bed since he's used to his own farts, and told his company to just step over the shit in the living room. What did Martele do? I grabbed the doggy-doo with some tissue and flushed it down the toilet (the dumpster is on the other side of the complex). I took a quick shower, brushed my hair while I was in there, changed the bedsheets and febreezed the hell out of my apartment (unscented avoids the dreaded overkill aroma). By the time my friend got here I was checking my email and answered the door dressed in crisp, CLEAN tighty-whities and a form-fitting baby-blue wifebeater (guy version of lingerie) that let him know exactly what was on my mind. So what'dya think? I know I can't give birth and the closest I'll ever come to the fragrance of your pheremones is by using fruit-inspired body wash, but I did feel slightly in touch with my inner Wonder-Woman tonight.