Dowd isn't reluctant to call others to the task for hypocrisy or lazy thought. In several instances she dresses down the media for its treatment of feminism, women, and women's issues. In one of the more astute, soundbite-quality quips in the book, she compares treatment of Capitol Hill's scandalous women with the megalomania of the of the powers that be: 

Male critics accused Anita Hill and Monica Lewinsky of having erotomania —fantasizing that a man is in love with you. But isn't empire-mania — fantasizing that occupying a country will be a cakewalk — a more dangerous malady?

On a lighter note, Dowd discusses the cartoon vixen phenomenon: Why is it that Jessica Rabbit, Betty Boop, and even Betty and Veronica can cause a man to shift in his seat, yet Superman, Barney Rubble, and Shaggy leave women as cold as the skies between here and Krypton? 

I began to see the sick logic of it. Guys always asked, Veronica or Betty? (The quintessential pigtailed virgin/predatory whore, Mary Ann/Ginger, Jen/Angelina, sweet blonde/voluptuous brunette dichotomy has gained new life on hip cashmere hoodies and scarves at the L.A. boutique Kitson's that ask ARE YOU A VERONICA? or ARE YOU A BETTY?)

But you never hear girls musing, Archie or Reggie? Bart or Homer? And those dudes are not pictured on hip T-shirts at Kitson's

And yet, from here, the contemplation veers again into the territory of stereotypes:

For most guys, the more cartoonish the better. Perfect features, placid expressions, perfect bodies, no demands. (Maybe this yen is tied to men's attraction to childish female faces.)

While women find a wide array of men attractive for a wide array of reasons, men tend to be more predictable and visual in their responses. What men find sexy has hardly changed, despite a feminist revolution, except to grow more lactic and cartoonish.

These discussions of how inevitably primitive men are bother me. Maybe the science is true; maybe I should stop hoping that equality of the sexes means that, just as women aren't all only interested in snagging a man, men are able to think above the belt. Maybe the science proves me wrong. Maybe I am denying the true nature of evolution. Early in the book, Dowd herself recognizes that, sometimes, she casts a very wide net: 

I certainly understand if some men prefer to think of themselves as individuals and opt to wriggle out of one broad's broad generalizations.

But is that enough to forgive the familiar keening about men who won't commit? 

An unscientific poll of my girlfriends found that they would rather have a pill that could change a man's personality an hour after sex. A pill that ensures that he always calls the next day and never gets spooked.

A morning-after pill for men.

So Dowd, whose single status and relationships seem to invariably be mentioned in reviews (a trend I am not entirely comfortable with, but seem to be continuing, possibly inevitably given the title's wink-nudge to the issue), declares that a Viagra-like solution is needed for that kind of let-down. And yet, it is a very broad generalization, one that runs counter to my own experiences.