The Perfect Gift?

‘Tis the season to cleanse a few platitudes and clear out cliches about gifts and giving.

It is better to give than to receive. I don’t think so. Ask any man who has given a woman a set of snow tires. Or a half-cord of firewood. He’s still having Christmas dinner at Denny’s.

What do you get the man who has everything? Easy as pie. Literally. Seriously. Get Mom’s recipe for his favorite apple pie, and be very precise about the touches of lemon juice and cloves.

The manner of giving is worth more than the gift. Of course. So, Anxious Male in El Monte, buy something lacy from Victoria’s Secret and use it to gift-wrap a weekend reservation for two at the Hotel Del Coronado. Be prepared to revise your plan if she asks you to try on the teddy.

We do what we can, we give what we have. If God didn’t want women to overspend on their men, he wouldn’t have invented Porsche Boxsters, big-screen TVs and payment plans with the first installment due in 2007.

Love is life’s ultimate gift. No it isn’t. Dodgers season tickets are.

God loveth a cheerful giver. Absolutely. So grin, chuckle and giggle to tears when you give her the snow tires.

What we’re suggesting here is a pox on philosophers, disciples and poets. They never shopped at Nordstrom the weekend before Christmas. Or lived with mercurial fads (quick, whatever happened to Tickle Me Elmer? Or was it Elmo?), status chasers, sales promotions that would pervert any vow of poverty, infinite credit, terminal materialism and uneasy travels through a devalued society where the gift that keeps on giving could be body armor.

When it comes to giving, there is no Thomas Guide. Particularly if the recipient is a man. As a majority, we’re an insensitive, misbehaving clan of knuckleheads. We’re even proud of demeanors littered with uns. Uncouth. Unromantic. Unkempt. Unheeding. Unexplicit. Unreconstructed. And emotionally unavailable.

But there are rules of thumb (albeit thumbs grimy from unclogging the garbage disposal) for giving to guys--this Christmas, his next birthday, or on the anniversary of his first wife’s remarriage.

First, do not believe too firmly in the male stereotype. After all, you chose him and we accept that you wouldn’t settle for anything less than Jack Armstrong. And some men do fall from the mold--or were molded by their falls--and have developed finely tuned feminine sides. They know the difference between floribunda and tea roses, they cook world-class ris de veau en croute, they collect antique clocks, are addicted only to “Masterpiece Theater” and good gin, and don’t wear teddies. But I’m taken.

Don’t buy gift certificates for these types. It places a monetary value on the relationship and no man likes to have his worth and human contribution compared to a $30 coffee bean basher from Williams-Sonoma.

We do not like lifetime memberships in Weight Watchers. Mail-order gifts are risky, because men get the same catalogs. If we wanted silk BMW boxers from Beverly Hills Motoring Accessories, we’d have ordered them ourselves. Do not, however, use this as an excuse to ignore catalogs from Bloomingdale’s, Neiman Marcus, Harrod’s or Tiffany. You’re sure to find a little something we’d like.

Unless you have known your man at least 30 years and there is a strong possibility that the relationship will evolve into marriage, do not buy him a pet. Not even a goldfish. Certainly not a snake, parrot, lizard or anything else he might have met in Vietnam. Anything that requires walking, grooming, annual shots, feeding, toys and a litter box to clean will interfere with quality time when you both could be watching the 1975 Wimbledon final on the Classic Sports Network.

No books or magazine subscriptions. They will either insult his intelligence, or confirm the humiliating view he already has of his intellect. Especially avoid hobby books that could steer him to new, absorbing adventures where 93% of his disposable income will switch from brunches on the beach to building model railroad layouts. Playboy calendars will leave him tongue-tied.

Jewelry is very dodgy. Gold ID bracelets went away with John Gotti. Unless your man owns an accordion and a turquoise tux, diamond pinkie rings are taboo.

Clothes are another no-no. Even one-size-fits-all rarely does. Your idea of the white shirt that appears dignified will be his idea of dull. Men prefer to buy their own underwear because they can’t stand the thought of you discussing their crotch size with a perfect stranger.

We do not like leaf-blowers, tickets to touring productions of “Cats,” novelty T-shirts, baseballs with facsimile autographs, key chains, compressed-air corkscrews, tapes of foreign films, Japanese socket wrenches, baseball caps with plastic sizers, bug-eye sunglasses on anybody over 17, models of cars we will never be able to afford, undersized Swiss army knives or ginseng capsules.

Unless you are an exact match for a man’s expertise, stay away from buying into his interests. To you, it might appear to be a cute little gadget and a potential life and trouble saver. To him its just a tire-pressure gauge in a designer pouch and he already has eight.

And just because the woman in the antique store stressed its collectibility, your ESPN athlete will have no desire to own a tennis racquet from the ‘50s.

So what’s a girl to do?

Reexamine that lad of yours. Surprise him. Tease him. Play to the little boy that, no matter the size of the tattoo and Doc Martens, really does exist in every man. Indeed, you caring enough to cook Mom’s apple pie will please and flatter mother and son. You couldn’t earn that kind of credit with Boeing stock.

Ties, surprisingly, are not a bad idea. Men have them by the thousands because we haven’t thrown one out since high school. But something silk, something Versace, something expensive, something we would never dare to buy ourselves, should be good for something by Thierry Mugler when it’s your turn to receive.

A half-day horseback ride in the Santa Monicas is a galloping good idea. We men have been known to like flowers and plants. A rare cactus is a conversation piece, requires almost zero maintenance, and doesn’t have to be walked. If you give six dozen roses, you are not allowed to tell anyone about it. Or instead of Thierry Mugler, you might be sniffing Charlie.

All men are suckers for good wine--something French, brewed prior to 1989 and with an unpronounceable label. A piece of nonsense--a radio-control dune buggy, an antique teddy bear--can be quite irresistible. And your late grandfather’s cuff links will work every time.

But always be prepared for that moment when he opens the package, looks inside and, just before the smile of polite gratitude, there is the flicker of a frown.

That’s when you say: It is not what we give, but what we share, for the gift without the giver is bare.

He might reply: “James Russell Lowell, from ‘The Vision of Sir Launfal,’ 1848.”

Marry this man immediately.