A mother. A daughter. A topic.
Topic: What are appropriate/inappropriate gifts to give your “significant other”?
Cindy Thinks
Ally Thinks
I have to admit…I take the whole gift giving thing pretty seriously.
In my world, gift giving is much more of an art than a science, and I’ve learned to appreciate the finer art of gift giving for a significant other.
It starts with listening. Listening to your loved one about what THEY like, what THEY appreciate, or what THEY would never get for themselves…but would love to get.
It’s supposed to be about THEM. Not US.
But the truth is…it’s downright tough to think about them and figure out what they’d like!
And I know this from experience. I wasn’t always good at this stuff.
I mean, no guy should have to get a sweater with leather patches on the shoulders and elbows each year for Xmas (sorry Brian). But then again… no woman should ever have to get a hot-air popcorn popper for her birthday (again…sorry Brian).
But I’ve learned (and so has Brian).
And I think now I’ve gotten pretty good at gift giving, especially for my significant other (lucky Matthew).
Cause I think I’ve figured out the rules.
Finally!
I mean, you’d think someone would have told us all the rules by now!!!!
So…in an act of community service during this 2010 Holiday season, I offer you…
The Rules of Gift Giving for A Significant Other
by Cindy Carrillo
Part 1: Rules for Giving Gifts to a Woman (Significant Other)
Rule #1…NEVER give a woman who is your spouse or significant other an appliance Of ANY KIND for a special occasion or holiday. I don’t care if the toaster/washing machine/vacuum cleaner just broke and she ASKED for a new one. Get it next Tuesday…but NOT for a holiday or special occasion.
Rule #2…If it has some utilitarian function…don’t get it. She can (and probably will) get it for herself. However, giving gifts of “experiences” (things SHE likes to do!) are like gold to a woman (‘cause then she doesn’t have to make all of the plans herself!!!!).
Rule #3…DON’T listen when she says she has everything and doesn’t want anything. But DO listen to what she talks about and shows interest in, and DO pay attention to what she pauses to look at in the store. Exception: collections are fun and all…but don’t take the easy way out and get her another cow or turtle or coffee mug (that’s what your other family and friends already get her!).
Rule #4…If it would make her feel pretty or special or pretty AND special…get it. It’s worth every penny!
Rule #5…It doesn’t matter if she already has 17 pairs of earrings, 12 necklaces, 15 bracelets and 6 rings. The new one you get her this time…will end up being her new favorite.
Part 2: Rules for Giving Gifts to a Man (Significant Other)
The rules for Men (I think) are somewhat different…but still…follow the same basic premises as above:
Rule #1…Never give a man an appliance as a gift…as if a woman would ever get a guy a washing machine for his birthday! Exception: Power Tools (unless of course he’s Jewish…in which case you want to give him a gift certificate for a handyman).
Rule #2…If it has utilitarian function…GET IT. Again…that whole power tool (or electronic) thing. Not sure why, but men seem to like stuff that actually does something useful.
Rule #3…I have yet to hear a guy be coy about what he wants, because men don’t play games like women do. So if he tells you what he wants, get it. He doesn’t need the surprise or for you to figure it out for yourself (like women do).
Rule #4…If he’s into lookin’ good…it’s worth every penny to help him feel that way with a great addition to his wardrobe. But if he doesn’t care how he looks…don’t get him clothes…or you’ll risk being thought of as his mother (which we all know is the kiss of death to a relationship!).
Rule #5…Unless he collects cufflinks or ties or sports team paraphernalia (or whatever!) …don’t get him stuff he already has. “Choice” just doesn’t mean the same to him. Think “the latest electronic” or gadget or game. He’d rather turn something on and play it, than wear it!
There you have it!
I hope you’ll follow these rules and have years of happy and fruitful gift giving between you and your significant other (and never receive a popcorn popper or leather patched sweater ever again!).
I’m speaking (mostly) from a girl’s perspective here.
(Obviously.)
Appropriate:
Something she wants, that she didn’t even realize she wanted.
Inappropriate:
Something you want, whether or not she realizes she wants it.
Appropriate:
Something she would never get for herself because it’s too extravagant.
Inappropriate:
Something she would never get for herself because WHO WOULD WANT THAT?
Appropriate:
Something she’ll use.
Inappropriate:
Something she needs.
Appropriate:
Something she wants that she explicitly asked for.
Inappropriate:
That mattress pad that she explicitly asked for.
Appropriate:
A book by her favorite author.
Inappropriate:
A self-help book about how to stop being a control freak, even if it’s by her favorite author.
Appropriate:
A gift certificate for a full day at the spa.
Inappropriate:
A gift certificate for a full body waxing… even at a spa.
Appropriate:
A cookbook.
Inappropriate:
A diet cookbook.
Appropriate:
Lingerie
Inappropriate:
Lingerie two sizes too large (or too small).
Appropriate:
Something for the house.
Inappropriate:
Something to clean the house.
Appropriate:
A DVD of a movie that you both loved.
Inappropriate:
A DVD of a movie that you loved but she fell asleep or covered her eyes through.
Appropriate:
Some nice lotion.
Inappropriate:
Nice lotion that has “anti-aging” or “clears acne in one week” on the bottle.
Appropriate:
A sweater.
Inappropriate:
A sweater your mom picked out.
Appropriate:
Candles in her favorite scent.
Inappropriate:
Scented candles for the bathroom.
Appropriate:
Diamonds.
Inappropriate:
Fake diamonds that you pretend are real.
Appropriate:
A new car.
Inappropriate:
A muffler to make her old car sound “manly”. (Mike asks me every year if I want one… Every. Single. Year.)
Appropriate:
A gift certificate for a massage.
Inappropriate:
A homemade coupon for a hug. (Unless it accompanies diamonds or a new car.)
You get the idea.
Of course, there are exceptions to every rule.
Maybe she really wants a muffler!
But, you know, better safe than (really) sorry.
Topic: “OMG – I look/sound just like my mother!!”
{ Topic submitted by Jill M. }
Cindy Thinks
Ally Thinks
I do actually. Both look and sound like my Mother.
OY.
When I was younger I was always mistaken for my mom on the phone. Once in awhile that was fun (as in tricking sales people to thinking I was her and getting her appreciation for fending them off). But as a teenager, when someone would call and ASSUME I was my mother, I would always make it sound like it was a HUGE imposition, and respond in a dull teenage drawl with “NO…it’s not Del, it’s just Cindy…I’ll go get her” and stomp off to get my mom (‘cause we weren’t allowed to shout to tell her there was someone on the phone).
But mostly I hated it when people told me I looked like my mom. Don’t get me wrong. She was the cutest mom of all the mom’s I knew, and looking like her was not such a bad roll of the dice (no offense to my dad…but we all know I did better on that one!). I was just trying to figure out who I was, and what my look was going to be…and sometimes it felt like I was just a carbon copy of her…only 4 inches taller and many pounds heavier (she was a teeny little thing, damn her).
As I’ve gotten older however, I’ve realized I look more and more like her every day, and it doesn’t much bother me anymore.
In fact, I kinda like it.
I have short blonde hair like she did (we never did find out her “true” color…but we’re never gonna find out mine either, so what the hell). And, a round face like she did. And small, thin lips…and virtually no eyelids (like her), but somehow…it seems to be working better for me these days.
But mostly…I have the same hands. I look down at my hands now, and see my mom’s. I used to love her hands. They were small and warm and loving. And now I think I have them too.
(Luckily I haven’t inherited the arthritis that bent her fingers and restricted her ability to use them effectively, but I always thought they were beautiful nonetheless.)
The thing that used to irk the hell out of me, though, is when she ended up in my head…and her words ended up coming out my mouth.
What the hell was that all about?
I’d be in the middle of a conversation with someone and out of the blue would come one of my mother’s “isms.”
There were hundreds of them.
I remember once (when Ally was about 3 years old) I was trying to explain something to her and she kept asking “Why?” every time I gave her an answer (like EVERY 3 year old on the planet)…and without hesitation, out came the mother of all of my mother’s “isms” …”Because, there’s no bones in ice cream!”
OMG! Where did that come from? My mother used to say that to me and my brother ALL the time when she didn’t want to give us any more of an explanation.
Me: Mom, can I go to Nancy’s to sleep over this weekend?
Mom: No honey…not this weekend.
Me: Why not? I don’t have anything else planned.
Mom: It’s just not a good weekend honey.
Me: But why?
Mom: Because there’s no bones in ice cream…that’s why!
END…OF…DISCUSSION.
I was so outraged that I had used this tedious, outrageous tactic on my own little girl that I stopped my conversation with Ally…picked up the phone, called my mother and shouted “GET OUT OF MY HEAD WOMAN!”
Needless to say she was both a bit shocked at my call, and a bit pleased that her w-is-do-m had rubbed off on me!
When Ally got older she researched the whole no bones in ice cream thing and found out that there’s gelatin (which is made out of bones or something) in ice cream, and blew the whole thing out of the water…and COULDN’T WAIT to tell my mom.
My favorite “Del-ism”, however, is one that’s now being used by hundreds, if not thousands, of people who came into our sphere of influence over the years. It’s the “Tell the Pilot to Drive Carefully” ism.
I know. Pilots don’t drive planes.
It was just her way of telling someone to have a safe flight. But, somehow when she said it, it was more than that. It was a safety net she threw over you to make sure absolutely nothing bad would happen to you on your trip. And it always made me feel safer.
So I started to say it to absolutely everyone I knew who was going on an airplane.
As a family, we say it to each other (individually mind you) when we get on the plane. It sounds like a little chorus of well-wishing as we make eye contact and softly utter the words Tell the Pilot to Drive Carefully simultaneously to each other. (Brian always hated it but humored me by saying “TTPTDC” every time we flew).
I even used it at work within my company and it became a “thing” with my staff. At first, I think they (the collective “they” over 23 years with the company) thought I was crazy. But I gotta tell you, there wasn’t anyone who left on a business trip who didn’t make it into my office to get their own Tell the Pilot to Drive Carefully before venturing out to the airport.
And now, after all these years, it absolutely warms my heart to hear someone outside of my family (because my family members are just expected to say it), tell ME to Tell the Pilot To Drive Carefully when I’m leaving on a trip.
Yeah…I look and sound like my Mother, and there are still some times when I do a double take in the mirror or have to stop myself in the middle of a sentence, and recognize that the words I’m speaking could easily have come out of my mothers mouth (and probably did sometime during her life), but instead of wanting to change my look, or shout and get her out of my head…I find that I get this warm glow filling my heart instead.
In Loving Memory of Del Kram…I hope I look half as good as she did, and that she never leaves my head.
I remember sitting with a girl on the floor of a high school gym, waiting to be picked up from a day at summer camp. I can recall quite clearly that we were discussing why Jonathan Taylor Thomas was the hottest boy ever.
(He totally was.)
My mom walked in and started coming over to us. As she approached, the girl next to me looked at my mom, then looked back at me, and said, “That’s your mom? Are you adopted?”
“Um… no. I look more like my daddy?” What is a seven-year-old supposed to do with that?
(For a split second I actually thought to myself “OHMYGOD MY MOMMY ISN’T MY MOMMY.”)
(Again, I was SEVEN.)
Which parent I look most like depends on who you talk to. Talk to people that grew up with my mom, and they swear that I look exactly like her. Stand me next to my dad and his side of the family, and I look just like them.
I grew up being told that I looked just like my dad. We have the same darker coloring, and when I stand with his sister and my cousins, we are all clearly related.
It takes a little bit more to realize that I belong with my mom’s side. Her blond hair and shorter stature sort of throws people off.
(Notice I referenced your “shorter stature”, Mom, and didn’t just call you “short” or “little” or “small”. Because I’m polite.)
I would go out with my mom and grandmother and nobody would think I was theirs. Not that I blame them. What would you think if you saw two small (well, TINY is more appropriate when referencing my grandmother) blond women, and me, towering several inches above them with dark brown hair, black eyebrows, and skin a few shades darker.
My brother is a pretty clear mix of our parents, though, and him and I clearly look like siblings, so at the end of the day we all look pretty cohesive.
When you see the four of us together, all of the pieces fall into place.
I think that my personality and mannerisms are a pretty good and even mix from both of my parents. For example, I have my dad’s dark sense of humor, and my mom’s (slightly warped) view of life, and I’m perfectly happy with these things. I wouldn’t have it any other way, actually.
BUT, there are certain things that just throw me off.
Like how I make this sound when my dogs are doing something bad. It’s this “uh-uh” sound in the back of my throat that I break out if the dogs are inching towards an open door or trying to sneak away a napkin from the table.
(My golden retriever LOVES napkins, so I make the sound a lot.)
It’s an automatic reflex noise that drives Mike crazy, but (no matter how many times Mike claims that it does nothing) it works, damn it.
A few years ago I was at my dad’s house with the dogs when they did something naughty (the possibilities of what exactly they did are too vast for me to remember those details), and my dad spun around.
“Is your mom here?”
Wait… what?
Well, shit.
It’s not a huge deal, but how did that little thing worm it’s way into my head and manifest itself? Years of hearing my mom make similar noises at our dogs (or my brother) (but NEVER me) (because I NEVER did anything wrong) (seriously)? Is it genetic?
Do we all end up like our mothers NO MATTER WHAT?
I think this blog has been really interesting because it’s shown how much we ARE alike, whether we realize it or not. Like how we pick the same songs for our personal musicals or both have a slightly unhealthy relationship with shoes or both procrastinate (note: it’s Sunday evening and neither of us has finished this post for tomorrow).
There would be worse things in life than being told that I look or sound just like my mother. I’m still young enough that it hasn’t taken over my life (yet). I’m sure that once I have kids the similarities will be numerous, and I’ll be calling her daily to scream at her for screwing with me.
And who knows? Maybe I won’t just look or sound like her, but also start dancing and someday be able to throw kick-ass parties.
Again, there are worse things that could happen.
If you read last week’s post on True Love, this shouldn’t surprise you…if you haven’t, you might want to scroll down or click here …or not.
As this post posts on Monday, I will be going into surgery to donate a kidney to Brian…my ex-husband.
And there are only two things I am worrying about before I go in: 1) that my kids are OK throughout this whole thing and, 2) that for some reason, the kidney won’t work once they get it in Brian.
In actuality, I know Ally & AJ will be fine and well cared for (emotionally more than anything) by our family and friends…but that mom thing is hard to squelch.
And…honestly, I think Brian’s body is going to take that kidney and embrace it with all he’s got. He made me promise that I wouldn’t take it personally if for some reason his body rejected it. And, I guess it could look at my girly little kidney and say HELL NO. But I really don’t think that will happen.
In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if my girly kidney provided him with a new appreciation for shoes, or an improved sense of color and style …and a desire to decorate! OMG, he could even become a person who hugs!
We can only hope.
This whole thing started in earnest in late May when Brian’s regular check up with his kidney doc showed that his kidney function had finally declined to the point where he should begin the process of getting a new kidney now to 1) avoid dialysis and 2) live…a lot longer.
He’s had Lupus (that immediately hit his kidneys) since the early 80’s and we’ve known that this time would come sooner or later. So when he told me the time was now…I instantly made my pitch that his donor should be ME.
He laughed.
He adamantly shook his head no. He thanked me and said no. He patted my hand across the table and told me I was sweet…but thank you…no.
But it made perfect sense that it should be me, so I kept pitching.
We really couldn’t go to our kids (normally the most logical choice in these situations) because his disease could potentially impact them at some point (it won’t…but we couldn’t/wouldn’t take that chance) and his sister (the next logical choice) has Lupus too. So it made sense that it should be me.
He just kept laughing and telling me that I was crazy. But I’m not crazy. I’m logical and rational and generally get what I want in life, and I wanted to give him my kidney. He gave me two wonderful, healthy kids…so it made perfect sense to me that I would give him a wonderful, healthy kidney.
FINALLY, he backed down and agreed to let me “try” to become a kidney donor for him, partly because he was starting to agree that it all made sense, and partly to get me to shut up and go away. I know he didn’t really believe that we’d actually be able to go through with it. After all, what were the odds that we would actually be a match!?!
So in early June we went to the transplant center at Porter Hospital in Denver and began the process together.
We sat in the doctor’s office and met with the surgeon and listened to him explain how the whole transplant process worked and how Brian could either go on the transplant list (a 3-5 year wait for a donor), or bring in his own “live donor” to provide him with a kidney.
PERFECT! I promptly declared that I would be his Live Donor.
The doctor said “right…well, we’ll see.”
I’m like “no…really…I’m gonna be the donor.”
He gave me one of those “of course you are” looks.
So I followed with, “Oh, and we’d like to get this all taken care of by the end of the summer please.”
He gave me another sideways look and left the room giving his staff the opportunity to chore of dealing with the crazy lady and the kidney patient.
Of course it wasn’t as easy (or quick) as I thought it would be.
There ended up being tons of tests that I needed to take (THAT TOOK FOREVER) to make sure my life and my health would not be adversely affected (AT ALL) by losing a kidney. Don’t get me wrong, I totally appreciate the attention to every single detail, and the fact that they take this whole thing very seriously…but those people (referring to almost everyone I dealt with in the medical profession) moved at a snails pace throughout this entire process!
It drove me crazy.
And to be perfectly honest…there were times, many times that I didn’t handle the process all that gracefully. I bitched and moaned and griped (and even cried a few times) at all of the inefficiencies in the system.
But the worst part was the waiting.
Because, I guess, I’m not the most patient person in the world.
All I could think about was…come on people…we have a kidney transplant to make happen here!!!!
And I tend to move pretty quickly, and very efficiently when I do things. So I had more than a few moments of utter insanity as the folks on the other end of the process (and those controlling the process) seemed to handle our case with as much sensitivity, efficiency and open communication…as an auto mechanic who holds your car hostage while claiming to order the only parts to fix the problem, from somewhere in Outer Mongolia, while assuring you that he has only you and your cars’ best interest in mind.
That part of the process sucked.
But lo and behold…we ended up being a match, and I ended up being healthy enough to give a kidney, and Brian was going to get a second chance to live a healthier life…so all of the other bullshit flew out the window.
As soon as I found out I called Brian and practically shouted into the phone “SEE…I told you we were compatible!” He laughed and replied “who knew?”
I knew. I knew from the start. Because it made sense that it should be me.
And I’ll tell you…I CAN’T WAIT to wake up and see how much better that wonderful man feels with a healthy (albeit used) girly kidney.
I never grew up thinking that I had a sick dad. He was a doctor, he was hilarious, he was the smartest person I knew, but he was never a sick person.
Why? Because he’s never let Lupus define him. He’s never let himself act like a sick person. He has an illness, but it’s never had him.
And even now, when he’s going into surgery to get a new vital organ… he still doesn’t act like a sick person.
If you saw him at a coffee shop, or talked to him, or even spent some quality time with him, you’d never know that he was sick until he actually said something like, “Yeah, I can’t go to that concert with you next week, I’ll be getting my ex-wife’s kidney.”
I would like to go on record as saying that I offered my kidney to my dad a couple of years ago when this whole thing started. I told him he could have mine, and he refused it. I’m not gonna lie… that hurt. “What?”, I asked, “Is my kidney not good enough? Does it not know enough long words for you? Is it, *gasp*, not pretty enough?”
He and my mother explained that since I take after my father in so many ways (the same skin tone, the same long fingers, the same sarcastic sense of humor that’s gotten us in trouble from time to time), chances are pretty good that I’ll need both of my kidneys some day.
I suppose I can’t argue with that, but it would be nice to at least be considered as a possible kidney donor. Even if only for my own ego…
When my mom told me that she was going to try to donate her kidney to my dad, I wasn’t shocked.
I wasn’t surprised.
I didn’t even raise an eyebrow.
This isn’t because I don’t know how amazing and crazy awesome it is, and I never really expected it.
But it made sense.
Of course my mom was going to step up. Of course she was going to go through the hours and days and weeks of testing. Of course of course of course.
So they’re divorced. My mom loves him, and would do anything to make sure he’s around and healthy for as long as possible.
And more than that, my mom is just the type of person to do this. She gets shit done, and she gets her way. My dad needs a kidney, and she wants to get him a kidney. She doesn’t have the patience to wait around while his kidneys get worse and worse.
For her, it’s logical to just do it herself.
I know that a woman donating a kidney to her ex is rare, and let’s face it, even a little bit odd. But she’s not just donating a kidney to her ex. She’s donating a kidney to the father of her children, to her best friend, to a really great man.
What’s unique about the situation is that she’s one of the few people out there who would actually go through the trouble (and it is SO MUCH TROUBLE).
What’s unique is that she exists.
It’s nerve racking having both of my parents go in for major surgery. Actually, it’s kind of terrifying. The hours of waiting and the constant “what ifs” and did I mention that I HATE hospitals?
But I’ll have Mike and my family there to distract and support me.
And, if I’m lucky, copious amounts of prescription drugs.
I just want my parents to be OK, and I want the surgery to be a success. Because even though he doesn’t show it, and even though he doesn’t let his Lupus define him, he is sick. And I’m hoping the surgery makes him feel better… even just a little bit.
I’ll be tweeting because it helps to get it out of my head and into the world. If you care to follow along, you can do so by visiting my personal account, here, and the twitter account for She Thinks, here. (Just keep refreshing the page to see the latest updates.) I’ll be labeling all of my surgery updates #divorcedkidneys, so if you have a twitter account and would like to say something – that’s hopefully encouraging or at least pleasant – go ahead and do so.
Finally: Thanks Mom. Really.