Monday, December 24, 2007
I think the low point was the birthday gift I bought my mother when she was in her mid-30s.
I was around 11 at the time, and wanted to express how grateful I was for all she’d done. At least my dad told me to express that.
So I bought her a bag of army soldiers. Then I asked if I could borrow them.
I can’t say it was a selfless gesture. But it reflected my gender. For example, my older brother Hugh was a more sensitive child, yet he once gave our dad a bottle of Pepto Bismol as a holiday gift. Hugh, a future lawyer, claimed it was technically more altruistic than toy soldiers. But I’m thinking that gift-wrapped medication for minor digestive upset is not the warmest expression of holiday cheer.
I bring this up because it’s once again the time of year to buy people things. This puts great stress on males, who are bad at it. In short, women love gifts, and men don’t know how to buy them.
I think it’s our fathers’ faults.
Most dads teach their sons how to throw a baseball, but few take them to flower shops to explain that if she’s mad at you, it’s better to buy a rose bouquet than a funeral sympathy basket.
Actually, for a while, my father had a brilliant gift gimmick. He once got in the doghouse just before my mother’s birthday, and made up for it by buying her as many presents as her age. It was such a hit, he kept at it for years, parking himself at some department store with a newspaper while a few saleswomen brought him dozens of small items. He’d just nod at each addition without looking up.
I haven’t carried on the tradition, but in my defense, jeans now cost $130 a pair.
Besides, my dad wasn’t so great at other gift times. He was a businessman in the city, but as a family escape, he acquired a working farm where we often spent weekends. One December, he gave my mom a manure spreader. I assume that soon afterward, he asked if he could borrow it.
You can always tell a lost man during the holidays. He’s the one walking through the mall looking as cornered as a hunted animal. We have no idea where to turn.
Color of her eyes
A lady’s clothing store? What if some saleswoman asks us our wife’s style? Um ... well ... she likes nice clothes. Is that what you mean? Then they ask your wife’s eye color, which is never an easy question. Of course, they want to know her size. That turns your blood cold. Just try bringing your wife an 8 and then finding out she’s a 6.
A few times, I’ve gone into women’s bathing supply stores, but those paralyze me, too. As a man, all I need for a shower is soap and shampoo. How can women fill a 5,000 square-foot store with loofas, exfoliators and beads? What are bath beads anyway? Has any man ever lit a candle in a bathroom? And God meant for salt to go on a sirloin steak, not in a tub.
What makes things worse is that women always tell you not to bother buying them anything, and definitely nothing expensive. Men, being literal creatures, believe them. This gets us into huge trouble.
You learn over time there’s nothing more dangerous than taking women at their word.
Which is why “don’t buy me anything,” means “buy my something.” But what?
One year, my wife and I were with my then-5-year-old son and I asked him what I should get her. I figured he’d come up with something cute, and for that reason, maybe she’d be happy with it.
His answer: “A hundred washing machines.”
Today, he’s 14 and no more enlightened. At 54, neither am I.
So what to buy?
A nice apron? Could be misinterpreted. A new kitchen appliance? Equally dangerous. Jewelry? She told me nothing expensive. But did she mean it?
Maybe I’ll get her a bag of army soldiers.
X Mark Patinkin writes for The Providence Journal. Distributed by Scripps Howard News Service.