"December to Remember"

It's that time of year again. Every day, there are commercials on TV telling me to buy my loved ones luxury automobiles or diamond jewelry for the holidays.

It's not going to happen.

Look, I'm not going to tell you how to spend your money. Do whatever you want - spend it, don't spend it, give gifts, don't give gifts. If you want to give me a car, I'll take it and be grateful. Just know that my idea of ideal gift giving and yours do not mesh.

I think that gifts should, ideally, be small. They're meant to say, "I thought about you!" The last time I made a "wish list" for my husband, it had brown eyeliner and bed sheets on it. We also have a deal - there will be chocolate in my Christmas stocking.

I will totally admit to occasionally giving expensive gifts, but that usually involves travel. (Once it was scuba classes.) Experiences are more valuable than things are.

Again, I'm not telling you what to do, but this is what works for me.

People have told me why they think that big ticket items are something that should wait for special occasions; I know those reasons. I just feel that, if you've taught yourself to expect a car with a big bow on it in your driveway, just because it's a holiday (or birthday or anniversary), you've 1. put the emphasis in the wrong place, and 2. set yourself up to be deeply disappointed if the gesture isn't huge. And how many huge gestures are even possible, much less likely, in an average year or an average life? "Going big" ceases to be big if it's commonplace.

If you'd be happy with some candy, some warm socks, a good meal and a good book, you can pretty much guarantee a happy holiday. Think about that - guaranteed happiness! Who doesn't want that?

If, however, you've trained yourself to expect a two carat solitaire, you'll be disappointed with a one carat solitaire.

Years ago, I worked with a lovely, delightful, bright lady, who came from a family with more money than mine had. I remember clearly one November, when she announced, "I've just paid off last Christmas!" I was horrified. I said something (undoubtedly indelicate, like, "Are you crazy?"), and she looked puzzled. "That's how it's done," she said.

"Not in my family!"

"In every family."

We tangled about this for a few minutes. She thought that I was just being ignorant of family finances, and I was assuring her, "I'm not talking theoretically." My mother handled the money in the family I grew up in; I handle the money in my family. I know how it's spent.

She's a lovely person, but she may have felt a bit attacked, because we ended with her saying something about how "most people" wanted their holiday to "be nice," and credit cards were how that was accomplished, so my holidays were undoubtedly not "nice."

I beg to differ. My holidays were lovely. They still are.

I'm gearing up for this year's Christmas celebration. We'll have dollar store candy and discount store clothes and a fantastic time. I love this time of year; it's my favorite! No luxury cars or diamonds are needed.

Shopping Parties - Not For the Timid

There was a time in my life when I tried never to turn down any invitations, because I didn't want to disappoint anybody. I was invited to a lot of mommy type events - Tupperware parties, Pampered Chef parties and the like.

Which is how I ended up at a lingerie and lotions party.

Go ahead. Laugh. Get it out of your system.

It wasn't overly raunchy. There were no sex toys. Still, there were things that I didn't normally shop for, and others that I had never shopped for in a group.

Plus, I found out w-a-a-a-a-a-y-y-y more than I ever wanted to know about total strangers.

One of my best girlfriends was the hostess. As is usual with home shopping parties, she was hoping for a certain number of attendees and a certain amount of sales so that she could earn free products. She and her sister were the only people that I knew in attendance. Have I mentioned that I'm uncomfortable meeting people?

Anyway.

Let me be upfront about the fact that I mean no disrespect to the company, its employees, its customers, its manufacturers or its founder's great aunt's childhood sitter's next door neighbor. I simply found myself to be totally out of my depth.

The company had some sweet sounding name like "Pleasant Dreams." The consultant was a lovely woman. (It was a bonus for me that she was large, and that the company made large sizes, so she therefore wouldn't be giving me those sidelong looks that say, "Oh, honey, give up on having any sex appeal.") The products had ridiculous, flowery, euphemistic names. There's a reason that I'm not a product namer. Nobody wants to buy an "ivory bra." They want "Arabian Nights, color: Filtered Moonbeams."

One of the products that the consultant demonstrated - well, not demonstrated, it wasn't that kind of party, more like explained - was a desensitizing cream called Man Delay. Yeah, I know; I cringed. Besides, I had two children and more than a half decade of marriage under my belt at that point, but my first thought was that I never, when I was in a romantic mood, considered novocaine. I could not quite fathom the need this product would fill.

The point, apparently, was that it was supposed to make your man take longer to finish. While I was still trying to wrap my brain around why it would be fun to numb my husband's pertinent parts, things got weirder.

One woman, whom I had never before met, had fairly detailed questions. "I bought some last time," (leaving me thinking, "You attend these parties often?") "My husband lost all sensation. The last thing he wanted to do was have sex, because he couldn't feel anything. We tried waiting, but he was numb all night."

Consultant: "How much did you use?"

Customer: "I don't know." (squirms) "Not, like, the whole jar or anything."

Consultant: "Did you get it all over both of your hands, and really work it it? Were your hands numb?"

HEY! WHOA! I do not want to know this about total strangers! I get pictures in my head when people speak, and I did not want a picture of this woman's hands, or anything else, working it in! But now, there it was, along with mental pictures of her husband that I didn't want to entertain! Good gravy, could I run to the bathroom, or would that look really bad when we're discussing sex acts? Tilt! Tilt!

Consultant: "You should only use the amount that will fit on your fingertip. Otherwise, it's too much, and it defeats the purpose."

I have always been a full disclosure, "let it all hang out" kind of person, on the theory that it was honest and authentic. I believe that this was the exact moment that I began to embrace the concept of Too Much Information. There are things that I don't want to know. There are things that you don't need to know. Privacy is good. It's not about shame, it's about intimacy. Dictionary definition: "Intimacy (noun) 1. a state of being intimate; 2. a close, familiar, and usually affectionate or loving personal relationship; 3. a close association with, or detailed knowledge or deep understanding of, a place, subject, or period of history." Boundaries, folks! There are very few people I want to have these discussions with, and you're not on the list. Decorum, please!

And, of course, because it was a party, there were party games.

One was called something ridiculous like, "Measure Your Romance Level." The consultant read off scenarios, and you gave yourself points depending on your answer. I found myself overthinking it. Asked about times that my husband and I had "walked hand in hand on a beach at sunset," I found myself wondering if the beach had to be an ocean beach, or if lakes counted. After all, we're hundreds of miles from the ocean. This was a clear sign that I was getting pulled into the madness.

Asked to award myself points for every time my husband and I had "been parking" in the past year, I spoke out loud. "I didn't even go parking when I was a teenager!" I mean, really, does anyone think that's what romance looks like?

Apparently.

The consultant stopped the quiz to give me earnest advice. Knowing that I had young children - I think my oldest children were about 4 and 5 at the time - she said, "Put the kids to bed. Then, take a 6-pack and go out to your driveway. You'll be surprised at how a change in scenery can really spice things up." She said this very sweetly and sincerely.

This is the moment that I ended up describing to a family member after the fact. She lived thousands of miles away, a single, childless life, so I looked to her for input on whether or not I was the only one who thought this was crazy.

"Parking is for kids who have nowhere else to go. I mean, in my house, which I own, I have a bedroom with a door that closes, windows with curtains on them, and a king sized bed. And I'm supposed to schlep out to my driveway? In my van, with its narrow seats, a gear shift, and curtainless windows all the way around? And even if I drank, what's with the 6-pack, for crying out loud? We really want intoxicated exhibitionists in the driveway, in full view of God and everybody, instead of in my own private, comfortable bedroom?"

My loved one was not worried about my driveway. She was still trying to wrap her head around the party itself, and why I had attended. It didn't help that, instead of just describing it as "a home shopping party," I had used the comparison, "like Tupperware." Now the outrage came down the line, clear as day.

"You're the one attending sexual Tupperware parties! What the hell is going on out there in suburbia?"

The phrase "sexual Tupperware party," which she used repeatedly (for years afterward) quite frankly also puts images in my head that are best left unthought and unshared.

I don't think that anyone was surprised when I got the very lowest "romance level" quiz score. I even got 50 bonus points, and my score was far and away the lowest.

The 50 bonus points were for my shoelaces. It was the early 90s, and fashion was still reflecting an early-in-her-career Madonna influence. We got bonus points for "having black lace anywhere on your body," and I had wide lace shoelaces in my black leather shoes.

I still got the consolation prize. And an annoying level of sympathy.

Just for the record, in case you're wondering, I've still never felt the need to "spice up" my relationship by retreating to my driveway.

Or numbing anything.

House Hunting

Watching television the other night, I was puzzled. I was watching people behave in ways that make no sense to me.

That shouldn't be surprising, really. I shouldn't expect everyone to be like me, and I like to think that I don't. I'm baffled, though, more often than I like to admit.

I was watching one of those real estate shows - people go shopping for a home in a certain city, and we, the audience, get to watch. We watched a couple with small children, relocating overseas, and a teacher buying her first home.

The relocating wife said, over and over, that it was important to her to "experience (the country's) lifestyle;" it seems to me that it's impossible to avoid it. You'll be living in another country. It's inevitable that you'll experience their lifestyle, even if you try to avoid it. Still, they'd look at properties, and she'd complain, "I can't experience (the country's) lifestyle here."

She'd look at bedrooms and say, "This is tiny! It's smaller than our closet back home," and be astonished that, "There's only one bathroom?"

"That's very typical of (our) houses," the agent would say. Apparently, that was not the "authentic lifestyle" that the client was hoping to experience.

One home, that I thought was darling, was below their budget. It was on a riverbank in a beautiful area that was described as being 15 minutes outside of town. It had a big yard (important to me, and fun for the kids), was across from a park, and near walking trails. The wife hated the downstairs decorating, which seems to me to be a small thing - it's relatively easy to paint and hang new art. She was very unhappy, though, that there were no stores or restaurants in easy walking distance. "I don't want to get in the car every time I want to go somewhere," she said. That, too, apparently kept her from "experiencing the lifestyle."

One home was quite a bit outside of their budget. Both husband and wife said, "Ooh," and grimaced when the agent told them the price. "That'll be quite a stretch," the husband said doubtfully. Still, the wife lit up as soon as they walked in.

"Look at the chandelier! It's gorgeous!" she said. I was thinking, "For that kind of money, the chandelier had better come to life and clean the house," but they didn't seem to be thinking the same thing. "It's so elegant!" the wife said. "And historic!"

As much as she loved the house, she loved what was outside the house even more. It was easy walking distance to the market and restaurants. The wife glowed. "Now this is the lifestyle that we came to experience!" she said.

They chose the expensive house. "We'll just travel less than we originally planned," the husband said. They were moving to a European nation, and had originally planned to use the time there to see more of Europe.

"Well, the kids are little. Maybe this just isn't the time of our lives to travel," the wife said.

I was left thinking, seriously? She'd rather have a really expensive house so that she can walk to the flower vendor and bring bouquets home to enjoy them under the elegant chandeliers than travel through Europe? I just can't imagine.

Obviously, to her, the country's lifestyle was synonymous with "urban" and "elegant." I have no problem with urban or elegant, but it irritated me immensely that she kept insisting that she wanted "authentic" when what she wanted was urban. They're not the same thing. Just be clear with the agent, and yourself, that you don't like suburban or rural areas. It'll waste less of your - and their - time.

As a newlywed, I lived in a rural area, outside of a small town. We bought a home about ten minutes from town. The only business that might have been in walking distance (and that was a stretch) was a gas station. My kids would have had to ride the bus if they'd been school age.

Many of my friends and relatives found my living circumstances to be varying degrees of undesirable, and used words like "tacky," "provincial" and "middle of nowhere" to describe it, but no one would have said, "You're not living an authentic American lifestyle." When they sang the praises of where they lived, or tried to convince me to relocate, they never said that it was more American or more authentic than where I lived.

If someone had moved there from overseas, I would not have expected them to say, "It's too bad that I won't be living an authentic American lifestyle." I would not expect them to move back home saying, "Gee, I wish I could have seen what America is like."

The single woman wasn't worried about being authentic; she said that her biggest concern was safety. She said that the scariest thing that had ever happened to her was having a man stand outside her home screaming, and then throw a chair through her window.

To that end, she'd specified the part of town she wanted, a part she assumed to be safe. She wanted to adopt a dog, so in addition to safety she wanted outdoor access.

She was shown an 8th floor condo in a lovely building that she deemed very safe, but it was a bit pricey, and she thought that "coming down 8 floors in the middle of the night so the dog can go potty seems a bit much." A less expensive ground floor condo impressed her because it was gated and necessitated a security code, but the fact that the bedroom window faced the alley - basically, the complex's driveway, giving access to the garage units and dumpsters - caused her a great deal of concern.

"You can always get security screens," the agent said. (She also sniffed to the camera later that, "In her price range in that neighborhood, she's going to be on the ground floor. She's going to have to deal with that.")

The agent also took her to a small, two bedroom house. "This neighborhood makes me nervous. I notice that there's businesses mixed in with the houses," the client said. I found it very amusing that the last client had been delighted by having businesses in walking distance, but it made this client nervous. (They weren't questionable businesses - no porn shops or the like.) "And this street seems very busy."

The house had a back yard that the client loved. "It's very private. Your neighbors can't see in, and there's plenty of room for a dog." She liked the house, until she opened the blinds on the master bedroom window. She visibly recoiled and turned on the agent as if she'd just discovered machine gun toting assassins.

"I told you how important safety was to me, and look at this! It looks right out front! The street is right there!"

At that point, I'm thinking several things. Was she unclear that the room was in front of the house until she physically opened the blinds? Was she unclear about how far away the street was? She just seemed so surprised, and I don't know why. I mean, it is TV, they probably ask people to amp up their reactions, but it still seemed odd.

Then, too, I'm unclear on how this made it unsafe. There's a light on the porch, there's a street light in front of the house, and yes, it's a fairly busy street; this means that it's the least likely spot for anyone to break in. Criminals try to avoid being seen. The backyard that she, and the cousin she brought along to help her decide, swooned over was a far more likely spot for a break-in. Out of sight of the neighbors or passers by, someone could take their time jimmying a locked door or window. Going into the unused guest room is also far safer and more likely for a house breaker than going into an occupied room in plain sight of the street, the neighbors, God and everybody.

Then I thought about a conversation with my middle daughter recently. I spent a month and a half sleeping in my living room, recovering from surgery and unable to climb the stairs to my bedroom. "Doesn't that creep you out?" she wanted to know.

"No." I wondered what about my living room was creepy. I mean, my decorating isn't everyone's taste, but it's certainly mine.

"You're about three steps away from the door."

"Is anybody going to be coming and going while I'm in bed?" I can handle people seeing me in my jammies (but they'd better not wake me up if I'm sleeping).

"Probably not. But you're right there if someone breaks in."

"The front door is the least likely place for anyone to break in." Maybe we've all been watching too much TV; criminals will likely not stand on my front porch fiddling with lockpicks. We also have a porch light, a streetlight in front of our house, and clear visibility up and down the street from the front.

Seeing a person in evidence is usually a deterrent, as well. Brian Mitchell, who kidnapped Elizabeth Smart, worried that he'd come across an adult in the house. He once tried to take another girl, but abandoned the plan because someone was sleeping on the sofa in the chosen home. He couldn't risk being seen or heard.

If my house is empty, it would be worse if someone broke in, because they'll have ample, unobserved time to wreak havoc and take my stuff.

Maybe most people worry about being near the front door. Maybe I'm unaware of how most people think.

Maybe the home buyer worried that people would see or hear what was happening in her house, and that made her feel exposed, which she equated with unsafe. Close the blinds at night, and you've fixed 90% of that. No one is going to stand in your front yard, in clear view of the neighborhood, peeking in through your closed blinds. They'd be arrested. Very few people will stand on the sidewalk and listen to you. (And if you're loud enough for people driving by to hear you, well, you have other issues.)

For that matter, in that private back yard, put security screens, motion sensor lights and maybe an alarm on the windows and door. Those and the dog she was hoping to get will deter probably 95% of criminals.

Was being on the ground floor really part of what made her nervous? I've never lived in a large city, where, in the words of the old TV show "Mad About You," homeowners generally "own square footage hundreds of feet in the air, like normal people." Safetywise, it seems to me that in a high rise, you'd have bigger worries about fire, earthquakes, plumbing leaks, power outages and dozens of other issues that seem to more than balance out any "danger" of being on the ground.

She bought the gated condo, in case you're wondering, and put in security screens.

Both times, the camera crew went back to see how they liked their choices; both times, the clients were very happy. That's good; one choice is not best for everyone. That's why there are choices.

I just didn't understand their thought processes.

Or maybe it's the way they expressed themselves that I didn't understand. If the first woman would have said that she valued urban living, and the second had said that she valued privacy, what they said and did would have made sense to me. Instead, I was baffled.

Human interaction is difficult.

Also, I don't think I'll ever want a career in real estate.

What Are You Wearing?

The other shoppers kept looking sideways at me as I advised my daughter on clothes today. "Neon colors," I'd say, looking through racks of blouses. "Shoulder pads." "A blouse with a big, floppy bow at the neck," (to which she replied, "Oh, NO!") Looking through skirts, I advised, "Think denim with lots of lace and shiny things. (Slightly puzzled, my 24 year old queried, "Like bedazzled?") The most surreal moment came in the shoe department. My daughter wondered aloud whether she should buy a pair of high heeled, pointed toed sandals made of gold snakeskin, and my reply was, "If you can imagine Madonna wearing it, you're probably safe." There's a sentence I never imagined myself uttering.

We were shopping at Goodwill, trying to find an outfit for the 80s themed party my daughter's attending this weekend. I'd pull dresses off of the rack and say, "This is very 80s," or, "Look for those big, puffy sleeves that you hate." After about half an hour, my daughter said to me, "So, what I'm hearing is, find the most hideous clothes that you can."

I'd contemplated loaning her my wedding gown, but I don't think it would fit her. Besides, a wedding gown would probably be wildly out of place at a party.

Later, standing in front of the costume jewelry at WalMart, she'd asked, "Is this 80s?" and, "What about these?" "It's hard to remember," I told her. "I was never fashionable."

She laughed out loud - "Great, Mom, great," but I wasn't kidding.

In 1980, I was graduating from junior high. By 1990, I had a high school diploma, a husband, a mortgage (on the second home we'd ever bought), and two preschoolers, who would turn 3 and 4 that year. Never, in all that time (or any other), was I dressed fashionably.

Trying to think back, so I could help my daughter choose, I was mostly thinking about movies. What, besides the prom dress, did Molly Ringwald wear in "Pretty in Pink" - or was that the 90s? What did Madonna wear in "Desperately Seeking Susan?" All I could recall were fingerless gloves and some kind of big, mesh bow in her hair. What constituted the New Wave look? I tried to remember the fashionable kids in high school.

When my kids were born, we got keepsake "Baby's First Year" calendars, the kind where you put stickers to commemorate rolling over, visits to grandparents and the like. At the top of each month were places to put things like the baby's family tree, headlines and other records. One month had a headline that said something like, "What Was Popular." Some of it I could fairly easily fill out - "President of the U.S.," "Hit Songs" - but the line for "Popular Fashions" stumped me. I had to really think, and then wing it. For my daughter born in 1987, I wrote "acid washed denim." Even as I wrote it, I pictured her asking me, years later, what made acid washed different from any other denim, and me fumbling. "It looks kind of faded, but not like regular fading from wear..."

I wore jeans and T-shirts, which became knit pants and T-shirts. I never had Big Hair. I may never have been fashionable, but I'm recognizable, and not embarrassed by my old photos. Or my current ones. Maybe I'm just oblivious, but if I am, I'm OK with that.

My daughter has wondered aloud at the wisdom of throwing a party where "we all look like crap." Hey, kid, it's a theme - go with it!

She settled on a neon plaid madras shirt with a turqouoise top underneath, leggings under a very short, ruffled skirt, black tennis shoes, turquoise feather earrings, plastic bangles, blue eyeshadow and a ponytail sprouting out of the side of her head. She'll look amazingly authentic - and without puffy sleeves. Now, if I can only talk her into some big shoulder pads...

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.