interrupts her mani/pedi and reading about the fall fashions in Vogue to twirl her hair and say:
- Go ahead, open that car door/door for me. And while you’re at it, shouldn’t someone other than me be carrying this heavy thing?
- Hey, if you’re at all handy with a hammer, I have a picture that’s still propped on the bookcase and would look so much better on the wall… Yes, I probably could do it myself. I’m just not going to.
- You want to pay for dinner? Waiter, bring me another bellini!
- Yeah, I know you can’t run away in heels, but they are so much prettier. Also, in an emergency, hitting someone with a 4-inch stiletto will be a lot more effective than batting feebly at them with a ballet flat.
- I don’t need to understand why the washing machine doesn’t work. Please just fix it. Look, I’ll make helpful tea.
- You’ve got me bang to rights, I can’t read a map. It’s one of those activities I outsource, along with bicycle maintenance.
- Flowers? Really? OMG, I love getting flowers!
- Tyre pressure? Oil level? Wait, I don’t… absolutely, why don’t you just take care of that for me and I’ll stay here and re-read Jane Eyre.
- A wolf-whistle? This much cleavage on display and I get one lousy wolf-whistle? I’m moving to Italy.
- I can do whatever I want. And sometimes that includes sitting on the sofa, eating bonbons and being fragile.
From which it can be seen that my inner feminist and I are in complete agreement.