"Sir, those are Chinese silk blouses," a sales clerk said. "Pretty, but not for all occasions and difficult to clean."

"How much?" I asked.

"About $100," she said. "Maybe you'd be happier with..."

"No, these are fine," I said. "I'll take five."

"Really? What size?"

"I don't know. Medium, I guess."

"Color?"

"Pick out something."

She looked at me funny. "Are these for someone special?"

"My wife," I said.

"Have you met her yet or is she on mail order from Taipei?"

I once took great care in shopping for Claudia. I had no clue then that women in her family carried a gene that automatically disdained any gift presented by their men.

I started to get the idea on Claudia's first birthday after we married 12 years ago. She had expressed passing interest in stained glass and I went all out. I bought her a band saw, a grinder, a workbench, instruction videos, glass and solder and set up a nice studio for her in a spare room.

Claudia broke into tears and called her mother. After they consulted, she disappeared into the studio for a week before emerging with her first and only project -- a delicate glass panel for me that spelled out "Expletive Deleted," except it wasn't.

After a more holiday heartbreaks, I gave up and handed Claudia a nice card filled with cash. "What's this, a tip for your harlot?" she snarled.

I tried gift certificates from her favorite stores, but she scorned my lack of effort.

That's when I came up with my current strategy: I dash into any store, randomly pick a gift in my price range and let her exchange it. It serves the same purpose as a gift certificate, but she has to credit me for trying.

At first it worked nicely. One Christmas, for instance, I went to a jewelry store and bought her a gaudy cocktail ring with dozens of colored stones spread out in an array the size of a golf ball.

Claudia quickly exchanged it for the sapphire birthstone ring I knew she wanted. If I had bought her the sapphire in the first place, she would have traded it for a ruby toe ring.

The plan went awry when I began taking too much pleasure from finding especially ludicrous gifts. Claudia was soon wise to me and returned fire.

I bought her a silver kaleidoscope with genuine mother-of-pearl inlays, a machine that literally ripped the hair from her bikini line and a stunning collection of racy red underwear.

She responded with an antique lawn jockey, an electric nose-hair trimmer and a set of satiny boxer shorts that proclaimed in scarlet letters, "Speedy Delivery!"

Finally, we declared a silent truce and started buying each other clothes. She exchanges whatever I get her, of course, but I'm glad to wear what she buys me to avoid shopping for myself.

Lately, she¹s been buying me shirts in extra-long sizes from the big-and-tall section. It's not that I'm tall, just that her mother recently got a glimpse of my butt crack as I mowed the lawn and nearly fainted. Claudia vowed that no woman would ever again suffer that affront.

The long shirts keep the butt covered, but when I put my PalmPilot in the pocket it sags down to my belly button.

I may have rekindled the old war on Claudia's last birthday when the devil got the better of me and I took another shot at appealing to her artistic side.

I bought a $400 gift certificate from a paint-it-yourself pottery shop. It wasn't refundable and Claudia didn't have it in her to let it go to waste, so she had to spend hours down there painting goofy flowers on dozens of clunky cups and plates.

They come in handy, I suppose. Now when we have our little quarrels, she doesn't need to throw the good dishes at me anymore.