Home Goods That Define Me?

Apparently you can't just register at Bank of America, even though many of us are secretly hoping to pay off the day of our dreams with the checks of our dreams. After looking through a number of websites presenting new and clever ways to register for cold, hard cash in what unfortunately turned out to be a classy-with-a-k manner, my fiance and I gave up the idea and looked at our other options. We settled on a big department store that our geographically diverse guests could all access and picked a day to make some frivolous decisions about the dishes we'd be eating off of for the rest of our lives.

Obviously everyone wants to run around with a scanning gun in a grown up version of the Toys R Us shopping spree we prayed to win as a child. But the finality of selecting the home goods that define me... that was slightly (completely) overwhelming.

Having given this no thought whatsoever, Richie and I arrive at the store a ridiculous two days before Christmas. And I should note that the wedding registry office is located directly behind Santa and his apparently important lap. It took a solid 10 minutes to push through the throngs of sobbing children and exhausted mothers to approach a very banal looking desk lined with drone women carrying clipboards and dripping saccharine as they cooed, "So when's the Big Day?", their eyeballs exploding with dollar signs.

I have a headache already.

Marcy (*I will call her... as a subtle nod to our registry location) whisks off our coats, pulls out two chairs and immediately starts reciting reasons why we'll need to apply for their credit card. Sitting in front of her are three plates. Fancy plates. Like, non-microwaveable formal dishware that should never be eaten off. "You'll want to start with our fine china," she coos, palming that bullsh*t decorative plate of hers. I just smacked her in my head.

She gives us a tour of the floor, pointing out areas of interest. Interest to her, I mean. I don't think there's a circumstance in which choosing my Lladro and crystal collections will ever be a thing I do. Also, who the eff is registering for a retiree's Florida beach house? Because the store -- smack dab in the heart of New York City -- is clearly catering to the coveted 80+ demographic.

Finally on our own, we summon the courage to venture over to the dishes area. I don't think it's called that, actually. In fact, I'm certain Marcy would be tsk'ing at the informality of my discussion of their "china terrace," or whatever. Utterly overwhelmed, I focus on putting one foot in front of the other, and chant my new mantra: "I can pick some plates. I am capable of picking plates." Richie is in heaven with the scanning gun, and it's dawning on me that it will be necessary to delete the 17 porcelain angels he just learned how to scan on. Side note: he's making both light saber and Star Trek sound effects.

After comparing 23 different collections of white plates, which Richie insisted were differing in their shades of white just enough to make us commit to one set, rather than mixing and matching the soup bowl of my dreams to the salad plate of his, we settle on something. I can live with these plates. Forever. For all of eternity. These are the plates we're getting. That we will always have. Our wedding plates. The pressure is starting to get to me and I am in need of liquor now more than ever.

I grab Marcy in an attempt to breezily cover up an all-too-apparent panic attack and try to casually chuckle as I hint that they should have some champagne or something, to make this a little easier. I know this chick's got a stash in the back. Marcy, sensing my unease, tells us about their occasional "Sip & Scan" events. Now. We. Are. Talking. Reservations are made and we leave the Santa-filled madness knowing one thing -- we chose the dishes. On the great to do list of life, I'm relieved to put a big, fat CHECK next to that one.

Sip & Scan night arrives and is pleasantly Santa-less. Richie and I proceed calmly upstairs and beeline for the beverages rimmed with inviting umbrellas and oranges, mentally prepared to go big or go home. Within moments, we come to the horrifying realization that the cranberry juice we saw wasn't a mixer per se... it was the freaking beverage we'd be sipping. Seriously? Because I'd like to clarify that I do not have a UTI. And if there's no vodka involved, I can't think of another valid reason I'd be drinking juice tonight. This is exactly why I endorse carrying flasks. Well, I've never officially endorsed that, but I'm really thinking about it now.

Drinkless, we dive in, determined to make some decisions. I feel mocked by the 19 spatulas that are all different and apparently necessary. And then there are the woks. I can't envision a world in which I'll utilize a wok for its intended purpose rather than some sort of makeshift chip bowl. And also, how is it possible that I hate every one of these toasters? I cautiously decide that having a Spice Rack might be fun, even though I know nothing about the seasoning process beyond my impromptu thought of adding onion powder to my frozen dinners. For the record, Martha Stewart, I find your substitution of garlic for things I can't pronounce like coriander and turmeric to be whatever the feminine word for emasculating is.

As an aside, Richie has been scanning my boobs regularly, creating an "Invalid Object" message on our scanning gun. Oh how ironically true, scanning gun. Every department is a reminder of my failings at domesticity. I am, in this moment, an invalid object.

But then I see the bowl. Dear God, the bowl. Glistening in the distance. I've never had an emotional response to a bowl before. I don't know that I've ever NOTICED a bowl before. But THIS bowl -- this was the bowl of my dreams that I didn't know I had. THIS was a bowl that we could display proudly and build a thematic dining room scheme around. THIS bowl would DEFINE US. Sweet Jesus... this bowl costs $325?!? Seriously?! I can't cook. The best this bowl will ever do is hold chips. But damn it, they would look amazing in this bowl. I mean, honestly, we need the bowl. And we will have no regrets for spending an exorbitant amount of money on a ridiculous bowl that will never live up to its food holding potential because it will be a GIFT! And OHMYGOD there's a matching cheese plate. And napkin holder! AND SALT SHAKER!

It was at this precise moment that I embraced the registering process.

Feel free to look us up on "Marcy's" online registry and ship surprise presents. (LIKE THE BOWL. DEAR GOD I NEED THE BOWL)

Seriously- send the bowl,
Rachel

http://rachelfine.com