Apparently the diary entries documenting Maureen Dowd's mild crush on Arnold Schwarzenegger yielded enough material for a second column (the first one is here). Schwarzie knows his wife's dress size and buys her clothes; this makes her utterly incapable of saying a harsh word about him. Or saying anything at all -- basically, she just lets him do all the talking -- about himself. Which, before feminism ever happened, was what a woman was supposed to do on a date, right?