How to tell when your husband is just not that into you

I saw Jen Anniston’s movie, He’s Just Not That Into You, and I am not going to apologize for seeing it, and enjoying it. There was a divorce, of course, due to adultery, of course, and Jennifer Connelly played the wronged wife quite competently.
All the actresses — Jennifer Anniston, Drew Barrymore, Ginnifer Goodwin and Jennifer Connelly — did a splendid job of telling the story of us women, and the ways in which we might sabotage our own relationships and love lives, and marriages, and maybe how we just don’t know how to recognize a good man when he drops into our laps — like the Scarlett Johanssen character who passed on a wonderful guy (for her) because, I guess, she wasn’t ready to settle down and own a home with him. And Jen Anniston’s character who was ready to throw back Ben Affleck’s character because he wouldn’t marry her even though they were in such a committed relationship.
I remember years ago, spending hours on the telephone with my then best friend, trying to analyze what her new guy (on top of all the other weird, sick things he had done like spending half an hour in Zabars selecting fancy cheese for a dinner he was cooking for her), meant by a certain black tee shirt he gave her for her 26th birthday.
There’s a whole back story, but suffice to say the tee shirt followed a particularly disturbing Sunday outing, where, on the Metro North heading to Connecticut where this person played for a symphony orchestra, he sat her in a quiet corner and read The Velveteen Rabbit to her. No, I’m very serious. True story. And yes, that  Velveteen Rabbit — the children’s book.  It freaked us both the heck out, I gotta tell ya. We thought this man was insane, quite frankly. I mean, who does that? What kind of man would read a children’s story to a woman while on a date on the Metro North heading to Connecticut? Right? Obviously a man who is not that into her. And a nut. That is what my friend and I essentially concluded after maybe seven hours of discourse on the subject. By the time he gave her the tee shirt, with this tongue in cheek very grown up double entendre, that was it. We concluded he was Jack the Ripper and I advised her to forthwith end the relationship.
What she ended up doing, and what made more sense to us at the time, was she met and fell in love with and married a hard drinking, leather jacket wearing out of work guy who identified himself as a “rock musician.”  What that translated to was: She worked and paid the bills while he rehearsed his music all day. 
They eventually divorced, after about two years of marriage, because he had this thing where when he drank, he used to beat the crap out of her. But she swears up and down that they were soul mates and that he really loved her.
Fast forward a few years. I am now a middle aged woman who practices divorce law and I’ve heard a lot of pretty horrific things that women endure in their marriages. I find myself thinking of this girl, who is also a middle aged woman now. I realize now that there are worse things by far than a man who would read a children’s bedtime story called The Velveteen Rabbit to his girlfriend on the Metro North as they are heading to Connecticut to listen to him play Brahms and J.S. Bach with a symphony orchestra.
Last I heard, my former best friend was having some trouble in her second marriage. This time, she married a nice guy; a quiet, easy going, but boring type of guy who never hits her, comes home after work everynight to work on his cars, and who dotes on their kids. He remembers her birthday and provides a good home for her and the children. But she’s not happy. For one thing, he refuses to help out around the house and spends all weekend watching sports on TV. She feels miserable in the marriage. She feels he should help out more. I remember asking her once, “your biggest problem is that he doesn’t like house work?!”
Between the movie and my own personal experiences over the years, and my observations of friends and acquaintances, I wonder whether, fundamentally, it is in our DNA as women to recognize a good man when he falls into our laps, or are we doomed to everlasting pining for the cads, abusers and ass-holes who really are just not into us?