THE BELL CURVE -- joseph n. bell

I have concluded after seven decades of acute observation that women have

turned the rhetorical question with consummate skill into a means of

protecting themselves from being seen as shrill or manipulative. Don’t

tell him he’s feeble-minded and needs to shape up. Just ask him a

rhetorical question that will make all this clear.

My wife, for example, has a strange hostility toward excessive butter,

probably the result of an austere upbringing. Butter in a quantity she

considers reasonable is OK. Too much butter -- meaning anything beyond

minuscule -- is lethal.

I use far too much butter from her perspective. But she never says: “That

butter, that GREASE, will probably kill you slowly, and I’ll have to take

care of you. None of that would come about if you would just use a

reasonable amount of butter.”

She has absolutely no technical evidence that this is true, and I could

respond to such a statement with reason and logic that would carry the

day. Or I could tell her to buzz off.

But I have no opportunity to do that because what she really says is: “Do

you realize how much butter you have on that piece of toast?”

The rhetorical question. The answer is, “Yes, of course I do. I put it

there.” But the question forces me to look at the butter, and by that

time her point has been won. If I then say something surly -- which I

frequently do -- she wins bigger.

I use this example only because it comes immediately to mind. For 70

years, I’ve been dealing badly with rhetorical questions, mostly from the

women in my life, all of whom have mastered this technique, which I think

is inborn and has very little to do with age.

I suppose if men were smarter, we’d find an effective way to deal with

the rhetorical question. But it always catches me off guard and puts me

on the defensive. It is also a device men seldom use themselves.

There was, for example, Miss Iverson, my fifth-grade teacher. As I was

creeping into the classroom inexcusably late and wanting only to avoid

calling attention to myself, she would fix me with a steely eye and say:

“Do you have any idea how long ago the bell rang?” Or if my penmanship

was faulty, “Do you really expect me to read this paper?”

When my mother caught me throwing a forkful of cauliflower out the window

after I left the dining table on some pretext or other, she said

plaintively, “Is that the way you’ve been taught to treat food?” Or if I

got home late, “Do you have any idea how much I worry?”

Most men would say in these situations: (1) You’re late. See me after

class; (2) Take this paper back and write it so I can read it; (3) Get

another helping of cauliflower and don’t do that again; and (4) Tell me

why you’re late, then we’ll decide what to do about it.

When I was going through flight training many years ago, we had to

practice instrument flying in a Link trainer, a torture chamber with an

aircraft instrument panel that could simulate flight. These sessions

would be monitored by civilian women technicians giving us directions

from a control station outside the trainer. Stress always seemed to be

redoubled in the claustrophobic Link because we had to do well while this

faintly disapproving feminine voice kept chiding us with rhetorical

questions when we screwed up.

If I spun out of a turn and crashed in flames, she would say things like,

“C’mon, Navy, do you really believe your instruments?” Or as I exploded

on the flight deck of one of our own aircraft carriers, “Now, Navy, do I

have to remind you which side you’re on?”

One of the most satisfying scenes I can remember from that period was a

fellow cadet bursting out of his Link, wresting his control stick from

the floor with an Herculean burst of strength, and almost attacking the

technician before he was restrained. I don’t know what happened to him,

but the other pilots who watched this unfold decidedly wished him well.

Dealing with rhetorical questions is rather like responding to

telemarketers who call with some inane pitch in the last minute of a

tight football game. While you’re trying to think of an appropriately

withering response, the moment passes and you just hang up.

I spend more time than I should when I’m alone in my car fantasizing

smashing ripostes to rhetorical questions likely to be repeated. Since a

response similar to the Link trainer episode would not be well accepted,

it has to be verbal and delivered instantly -- and I haven’t yet

developed the skill to match women in this arena.

A recurring problem during the upcoming winter months will illustrate. My

wife and I have drastically different metabolisms, which makes it

difficult to find a temperature for sleeping that pleases us both.

Although I’ve explained the health benefits of fresh air to her many

times, she still clearly doesn’t understand. This makes it necessary --

for her own good, of course -- that I raise windows after I think she’s

asleep. And every time I do that, from the depths of several comforters

piled on top of her, she says: “Are you doing that because you want me to

be uncomfortable?”

I haven’t figured this one out yet. If I say, “No,” then she’ll ask me to

lower the windows. If I say, “Yes,” I’m despicably selfish and

insensitive. I’m working with, “Yes, I am, because I want you to be

healthy even more.” This has a nice ring, but I doubt if it will fly.

I’ll give it a shot, though -- if I can remember it when the moment

arises.

* JOSEPH N. BELL is a Santa Ana Heights resident. His column runs

Thursdays.