A few years ago I was listening to the radio on a Sunday morning. It happened to be a broadcast of a talk given by S. Michael Wilcox at Time Out for Women. He is one of my favorite Education Week/Women's Conference speakers. I'm sure he said many good things that morning also, but what I enjoyed the most was the little piece that he started out with. I contacted the U of U Institute and was able to visit with Brother Wilcox and he happily sent me a copy of his "talk starter". I came across it the other day and decided to share it. I don't know who the original author is. Enjoy!

When I build my better world, I know one thing that is going to be outlawed. That is women's intuition.
Take the little matter of starting the car on a cold morning. I am standing in the garage, already 20 minutes late for work, glaring at the large hunk of inanimate metal. I have primed the carburetor, checked the plugs an dfiled the points. At this point my wife walks in. "The license plate looks loose to me," she says. "That's probably whay it won't start." In icy silence I tighten the license plate and step on the starter. Not only does the car start, but the dashboard clock starts ticking, and the dome light, which hasn't worked for four years, suddenly shines like a little star in the sky.
That's women's intuition.
If the radio goes on the blink it is foolish to worry about the tubes or transformer. You slam the desk drawer three times and in comes Lowell Thomas just as if he were standing there in the room. My wife informs me of this in the tone one uses with a child. If my electric shaver doesn't work, do I worry? No. I go down in the basement and kick a certain water pipe. Sometimes I fail to kick the right pipe and have to be led down again and shown, but it always works. If the furnace goes off, I just reach up and put a drop of cologne on the thermostat. "I discovered that last winter," my wife informs me calmly.
Occasionally I get a little confused. Yesterday, for instance, I was tinkering in my workshop, and the electric drill wouldn't work. "Dear," I sang out, "would you know why the electric drill isn't working?" "Certainly," she called from someplace overhead. "You'll have to change your shoes."
Reluctant to tramp all the way upstairs, I searched around until I found an old pair of tennis sneakers. I put them on but still the drill didn't work. Just then my wife came downstairs. "What," she said, "are you doing in those old tennis sneakers?"
"I changed them so the drill would work," I said, and then added triumphantly, "but it doesn't work!"
"Of all the egg-heads," she moaned. "I said change the fuse. It blew out yesterday morning. Who ever heard of making a drill work by changing your shoes!"