More Misunderstandings

"It's women like you who make it very difficult for the rest of us," the woman said, fixing me with a hard glare. I had just explained that I do not care if my husband, my kids or even, if need be, my friends, get things out of my purse. My husband especially has my permission to get anything he needs out of it, including cash. I just need a note or a heads-up so I know it's gone before I try to spend it. He can rifle it looking for receipts or pens or whatever he needs.

Just so we're clear, this isn't one sided. I have similar permission to go through his lunch pail, the "man purse" he carries on vacation, his wallet or his pants pocket. He usually goes to bed hours before I do, so I occasionally take cash from his pants pocket while he sleeps, and leave a note: "Hey, I took $X."

Her husband had gotten something simple like gum out of her purse, the woman had told me, in a tone of horror that made it clear that I was expected to gasp, put my hand to my mouth and exclaim, "NO!" She told me, "It's more of an invasion of privacy than a gynecological exam."

I tried to be suitably sympathetic, but I just don't "get it."

I don't understand most gift giving presumptions, either.

On a message board for mothers, I recently read a very angry letter about a gift from a child's dad. Dad had been out of the picture for years and had recently resumed contact. Daughter was 5; he hadn't seen her since she was 2. For her birthday (or maybe it was Christmas), he bought her a sweater. Mom was outraged. "A SWEATER! Nothing for 3 years, then a sweater! I'm so angry I'm thinking of telling him he can't come over when he calls next!"

I'm aware that, since this involves custody issues and hard feelings, it's probably not about the actual sweater. It's probably about unpaid child support and court hearings. Still, the reaction seemed over the top.

I wrote back: "Men are notoriously bad at figuring out gift giving issues, especially when the gift is for a female." That "female" thing isn't exclusive, though. My father in law once gave his 15 year old son a Daniel Boone style fake coonskin cap. It would have been a great gift for a kid half that age. We have photos of my son delightedly wearing his through Frontierland at Disney World when he was 7. For a 15 year old, though, it was worse than no gift.

I offered my opinion that Sweater Dad was probably patting himself on the back. He was probably thinking, "It's practical, it's in her favorite color, she'll wear it every day." Unless told, I said, he would be unaware that anyone would look at that gift and think, "What is wrong with him?"

The mom who wrote the question didn't take issue with my answer, but others did. One woman wrote back that I (names are available on the site, and yes, she called me by name) was " a b***h." "Just because your husband is a loser doesn't mean that the rest of us have to put up with that s**t," she said.

Wow. I thought we were talking about a little girl's sweater.

I polled my friends. "Am I wrong about this?" Most responses were like this one, from a friend since high school - "If my wife didn't buy them, no one would get gifts from me."

It's not the first time I've felt that a stranger was unnecessarily penalizing my husband in matters unrelated to him.

Years ago, while reading a book chronicling the crimes of a serial killer, I noticed that the author seemed to be betraying a bit of bias. The killer's wife, unaware of what her husband did away from home, thought that he was "perfect." She waxed eloquent about how thoughtful and gentle he was.

The author felt it necessary to note, in some detail, though, that he was not the kind of husband who brought flowers home or surprised his wife with jewelry. "If he wanted to get me a gift, we went shopping for it together," the wife said. That made total sense to her. It makes total sense to me - that way, he won't buy the wrong size, brand, color or item.

The author said, in a veiled way, that the woman should have known that something was not right with her husband if he never sent flowers or brought home an unexpected gift. Surely, the (female) author thought, this was a sign that he was insensitive in general and devalued women in particular.

I think that's a huge leap.

In almost 30 years, my husband has sent me flowers twice. This is because I have been very clear on the subject - I don't much care for flower arrangements (or corsages). If he wants to buy me flowers, it should be the kind that I can plant in my garden. Then, they last for years. They're also cheaper.

I'm also not a big fan of jewelry. Almost always, the only thing I wear is my wedding ring. I have made it perfectly, abundantly clear that, if my husband wants to spend a lot of money on me, there had better be plane tickets involved. I do not want a shiny bit of something when I could be on a beach, or a boat, or climbing a pyramid, or seeing a waterfall. I want to go places.

I would almost always value experiences over things. For my birthday and my anniversary, I want taken out on a date.

Friends have tried to explain to me why I'm wrong. "Dates last for a few hours. Vacations last for a week or two. Jewelry lasts forever! You can hand it down to your children."

My kids are out of luck. I own costume jewelry; they're welcome to it. My mom left one piece of "real" jewelry, her wedding ring. (She has three daughters, seven granddaughters, a granddaughter in law and a great granddaughter.)

Another friend tried to explain that, "Jewelry is an investment! It will only go up in value." Uh huh. I know people who've lost jobs and homes lately, and tried to sell their jewelry to come up with a bit of much needed cash. They're usually offered far less than what they paid. That, again, makes sense to me. I can't eat a jewel, wear it, use it to keep warm, live in it - if times are hard, its value is next to nothing. I can't even trade it for much in the case of societal collapse, because no one else can do any of those things with it, either. An apple tree - now that's a commodity with value.

Last Christmas, a friend said, "My wife asked for a vacuum. I got her a sapphire ring instead." As far as I know, his wife was thrilled and he was trying very hard to be considerate. Still, if I asked my husband for a vacuum and he bought me a sapphire ring, I'd be furious. I'd say things like, "Do you ever LISTEN to me? Did you just meet me yesterday?"

For graduations and weddings, my kids know that they will get a trip. They've been to Hawaii, Florida, Mexico and Australia. I suppose we could have given them stuff, or cash, but when we celebrate we go places, we do things. We make memories. Life is all about experiences and memories.

My husband values surprise; I do not. He will not make wish lists or give hints, because he doesn't want to know what he's getting. I truly do not value surprise all that much.

At least we listen to what the other wants.  Many, many times, my husband and I misunderstand each other, but not about gifts.

It's hard for me to talk to other people, though. I'm not going to be overwrought about a sweater. I will not be impressed by a diamond tennis bracelet. (Why are they "tennis" bracelets, anyway? Does anyone play tennis while wearing them?) When people ask what I got for my anniversary and I say, "Dinner out," I won't understand why they say, "And?"

And for crying out loud, I'm not going to suspect that my husband's a serial killer because he doesn't send flowers.

I'm Not Buying It

I've always looked at certain characters, onscreen or on paper, and felt them to be rather obvious caricatures. No one actually thinks or behaves that way, I'd think. Then, I'd meet an actual human who did. It's terribly disorienting.

I now know that many behaviors, thoughts and feelings that I'd always assumed to be fictitious or exaggerated are, in fact, common. I don't quite know what to do with this knowledge, though. I still find myself feeling alienated or irritated.

I signed up for an online mothers group because my cousin invited me to. I frequently decline such invitations, because I'm not particularly a joiner. I do not play well with others. I'm in favor of avoiding awkward moments in which no one really knows how to react. But, I love my cousin, I think she's a great mother and online, you can always ignore things or turn off your computer, right? So, I signed up.

A great deal of the interaction in this group is the asking and answering of mom questions – "How do you get stains out of a Little League uniform?" "How do you get your baby to sleep through the night?" "How do you get your husband off the couch and involved in housework?" I frequently read the questions, and if I think I have a good, relevant answer, I'll post an answer. Sometimes, I deliberately do not respond to something, because to do so would be unkind. I read things and find myself thinking, "Are you kidding?" or, "What is wrong with you?" – not what one should say to a total stranger looking for help.

Still, these things will roll around in my head, distracting me.

Recently, a woman wrote in and said that she'd received a designer purse from her aunt and uncle, but she couldn't see herself carrying it, and she'd rather have the money. "It still has the tags on it. Is that enough to prove that it's genuine? Where can I sell it to be sure I'm getting top dollar?" she asked. I don't know why I decided to look at the responses; I have no interest in designer purses. But, I scrolled through the answers.

95% of them were, "Contact me! I'm interested in buying it!" I would not have predicted that. I continually underestimate the average woman's purse fetish. One answer really stopped me. "Are you sure you want to sell it? A nice handbag makes me feel pretty. You might want to keep it," the woman wrote, followed by an emoticon happy face and, "Just something to think about!"

My first gut reaction was entirely uncharitable – "Are you kidding me? This is some woman's life?"  The idea of a woman feeling pretty because of the bag she's carrying is so foreign to me I cannot even express it. I don't even understand feeling pretty because a person has gotten their nails done, and nails are physically part of the body. Being attractive because you have a bag in your hands? Something that you carry around when you need it, then set down when you don't? Are you attractive when you walk out the door to buy your groceries, but unattractive when you carry the groceries into the house, because the grocery bags are ugly? Am I even on the same planet as this woman?

Even figuring that what she meant looks something like: expensive purse = quality person = confidence = attractive, that's still too "out there" for me to contemplate. And, It's a real stretch to get there from, "A nice handbag makes me feel pretty."

I was still mulling this days later when I read another post. This woman was even more puzzling to me.

First, she bemoaned using drug store concealer, but conceded that "in the harsh light of the recession," it might be necessary. I thought back many years to my asking about the whole dislike of "drug store brands." What else was there, I wondered. Pretty much everything I knew about makeup came from TV commercials, meaning that I could tell you brand names and celebrity spokesmodels. I was then introduced to the world of department store makeup, where a single tube or jar could easily cost more than a month's part time job wages. No, thank you. I fled and never looked back.

This woman, after already lowering herself to use the makeup of the masses, discovered that she hadn't been using concealer, she'd been using tinted acne cream. Her horror leaped off the page, with phrases like, "added years to my life – or at least my appearance," "robbed me of my youth," and "set me back dog years." As the youngest child, she said, she'd learned from her older sisters "the critical importance – the necessity – of good eye cream." She was, she was sure, "the only 12-year-old on the block religiously using Christian Dior eye cream." Having broken this cardinal rule practically gave her heart palpitations, it seems.

Wow.

I tried to imagine whether my older sisters had ever told me about "the necessity of good eye cream." I'm willing to say that they may have, but if they did, they were soundly ignored. If my mother had started telling me about eye cream when I was 12 (or 22 or 32 or 42), I would have thought she was exhibiting early onset dementia. Her own mother aggravated her by sending, at least once a year, moisturizer from Michigan, to "combat that harsh Nevada climate." My mom would sigh and put the new bottle next to its unused compatriots.

The only time I've ever worried about moisture on my face is when my usual regimen for washing off my eye makeup at night made my skin feel so tight that I thought blinking might cause it to split. I started using petroleum jelly to clean it off instead, and the tightness went away. I never, even once, wondered about how it might affect my looks. I wipe the makeup away with tissues or toilet paper, for goodness sake. I'm sure that's breaking some obscure rule that I don't know or care about.

As I put this down on paper – OK, into the machine – I was just sure that once I uttered such an opinion publicly, I would hear the same stuff I always hear when I say things like, "I've never been on a diet," or, "Let's go out for pizza:" "Sure, I could do that, if (imagine the tone of voice here) I wanted to look like YOU." So, I went into the bathroom, put my face right up to the mirror and looked. I made faces. I squinted. No wrinkles. None. I must have won the genetic lottery: the secret is to have extremely oily skin and to be fat. Forget face cream – have dessert.

Lest we think that girly concerns are the only thing that puzzles me, stereotypically male behaviors have been annoying me lately, too.

I will never understand the way some people think about their jobs, but lately (of course) there's a lot of discussion about how people feel without their jobs. More people now are losing jobs than I ever recall facing the same situation in the past. In person, in print, on TV, I'm seeing a lot of discussions on joblessness.

I understand the Provider mindset, the idea that the family is depending on your income, and that without it, you're letting them down. That makes perfect sense. What does NOT make sense is having your whole sense of worth as a human being tied up in your employment, and many people – especially men – do.

If you lose your job, do you lose your education, abilities, wit, training, experience and personality? No. Those are what makes you, YOU. Yet so many men feel that every shred of their worth is taken away when they get that pink slip. Oddly enough, they feel it is restored when they get a new job – as long as that job is as prestigious as their last one.

I also cannot make too much sense of advancement angst.  I have seen men tied in emotional knots because they realize that they will probably never rise any higher than they are within their company. Even if they live in a nice house, own a car or two, provide not only the necessities but niceties like sports leagues, dance classes and the like for their families, they will feel enormous stress about never rising higher. Instead of, "Isn't this great? I have a job I'm good at, and it pays my bills," they'll think, "This is it? What will people think? What will they say? I'm better than this!" Knowing that the jobless guys would trade places in a heartbeat doesn't usually help, either. Instead of thinking, "Gee, maybe I'm looking at this the wrong way" the reaction is likely to be, "You just don't understand!"

Concerns about status are not part of my daily reality.

Which brings me to cars.

I love my car. I've loved every car I've ever owned. I give them names, I stroke the dashboard and speak encouragingly or soothingly, depending on the situation. I apologize to them when I hit potholes or have to hit the brakes too hard. A car that looks or sounds like my first car makes me smile. It's just that I don't care much what brand it is, what it cost… It's just a thing.

A useful thing, true. But, that's what a car is for. It gets me and my family and my stuff from place to place. That's all I want out of a car. I do not understand wanting anything else from your car. It's like expecting your refrigerator to prepare and serve the food, as well as store it.

I used to laugh out loud at the auto body place whose commercials urged me, "Don't let your car affect your self esteem!" The point they were trying to get across was that I needed to have any dings, dents and scratches fixed, or my self esteem would suffer. My point is that my self esteem is unaffected by what I drive. My husband pointed out to me once as I was leaving my Rotary meeting that I was climbing into my $500 car with peeling paint, waving at a club member as she climbed into her Porsche Carrera. We would both get home that evening; that's all that mattered to me. I can't stand an unreliable car, but as long as I can count on it, I don't much care about anything else.

I do not understand status symbol cars. I don't care what you drive, as long as you don't expect me to be impressed by it. Telling me that your car has a race car engine, when you only drive it around town, is like saying that you have a space shuttle in your back yard; you don't intend to fly it, but by golly, you own it. If you wanted to, you, you could fly it, maybe up to the lake, but it's enough for you just to own it and know that you could fly it if you wanted to. I'll think that you spend money unwisely and that you're a bit adolescent; I will not think, "OOOOH, he's such a manly man." If you actually drive in races, well, own a race car. If you don't race, realize that you're an ordinary commuter.

I voiced this opinion once to a man who insisted that it took superior skills simply to own such a car, and practically purred at me, "Could you handle all that power?"

"Sure," I said. "I'd drive it to the grocery store and the movies, the same way I drive the car I own now."

That idea gave him high blood pressure. "That isn't the way the car's meant to be driven!"

"You didn't ask if I'd race it." Come on. I've never had a speeding ticket in my life. Do I look like a speed demon?

I love watching "Top Gear," the BBC version, for the witty banter, not for the cars. I couldn't tell you what car they featured even in the middle of an episode. Still, I am delighted that they reinforced one of my very few brand loyalties.

I love Volkswagens. I have never seen them experience VW failure on Top Gear. In fact, when they did one of their endurance races, every time they got stuck in a bog, or a desert, or on a hillside, what came chugging along to pick up the stranded driver? A VW. There they'd be, sweating and cursing, with the hood up, or digging the tires out of the muck, and I'd hear the familiar sound, and the VW would come over the hill or around the bend, even in the middle of the South American desert. Delightful.

I'm not quite sure why, but lately these instances of me being just out of synch seem to be piling up and causing me stress. People seem to expect me to slap my forehead, say, "I've gotta get with the program!" and suddenly covet designer bags and sports cars. I just can't do that. I'd feel ridiculous. And it would be silly, superficial and shallow. So, I expect people to not make a federal case out of it and just be OK with my NOT being superficial.

Don't ask me how that's going. You don't want to get me started.