Why we need more women writers

CHINLE, Ariz., Jan. 17, 2008

Normally I'm not one to spend an evening vegging in front of the TV, but the other night I was in a lazy mood, my husband was working late, and I nestled into the couch for an evening of sitcoms.

Every time I clicked the remote I was confronted with the same image: a fat, slobby, lazy man married to a slim, smart hottie.

"Everybody Loves Raymond," "The King of Queens," even cartoons like "The Simpsons" and "Family Guy" featured women who married so far beneath them it's surprising they could even see the top of their husbands' heads.

Who writes this stuff?

Men, I'm guessing.

Normally I would just roll my eyes and go back to my Alexander McCall Smith novel. Like most people my age, I believe TV has gone downhill since John Belushi died, and this is just further evidence.

The problem is, I think these stupid sitcoms are starting to give men ideas.

The other night, I got a call from a friend I'll call "Fred." Fred is a nice enough guy, and wouldn't be bad looking if he lost 50 pounds. But he's in his late 40s and lives in his parents' basement on a disability check he gets for a chronic fatigue condition he somehow picked up during his days as an intravenous drug user in the 1970s.

There's probably a girl for Fred out there somewhere, but most women wouldn't exactly consider him a catch.

Anyway, Fred asked me to introduce him to my friend Mary. I'm using her real name because Mary has nothing to hide. She's a 6-foot-tall triathlete with a killer figure and her own graphic design company.

I was trying to think of some way to gently point out to Fred that Mary is so far out of his league she's in a different sport, when I remembered something else about her that might discourage him.

"Fred ... Mary's married," I said.

"I know," he replied. "But I hear it's on the rocks." I tried to digest the fact that my loser buddy thought he had a chance with a gorgeous, brainy, married overachiever like Mary. Then I remembered that all Fred has to do all day, most likely, is watch sitcoms.

This trend of ever-higher male expectations can only bode ill for the upcoming generation of women. Already we outnumber men on college campuses, and my friends who have sons in that age group swap tales of their C-average boys being stalked by desperate pre-med students carrying plates of cookies.

Already an uncomfortably high percentage of my women friends are working 60-hour weeks while their husbands try to find themselves - and finding themselves does not seem to include helping out with the cleaning or the child care.

Have we come a long way, Baby, only to find we've been walking in a circle?

Honestly, I don't think this is what the women's liberationists had in mind when they urged us all to get out of the house and find fulfilling careers. They can't have known our husbands would quietly sneak in while we were at work, grab a bag of Doritos, turn on the TV and lock the doors.

What would Gloria Steinem do?

Write something, of course.

Here's my new sitcom. It's called "Todd and Tracy." Todd is a buff, handsome corporate attorney and erstwhile opera singer married to Tracy, a fat, slobby couch potato who exercises her mental muscles by watching "Are You Smarter than a Fifth-Grader." As the scene opens, Todd comes home from work to find Tracy, as usual, sprawled on the couch with a half-eaten tub of Ben and Jerry's.

Todd: Tracy! What are you doing? Remember, I invited the senior partner in my law firm over for dinner!

Tracy: Oh honey, you're a much better cook than I am. Besides, it's cubic zirconium day on the Home Shopping Channel!

Todd: You're right, honey! What was I thinking? You look fantastic, by the way!

OK, so it's not very funny. Back to the drawing board. But first, I think I'll call my husband and make sure he hasn't run off with Angelina Jolie.

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