My fiancee and I spent two hours in Bed, Bath, and Beyond yesterday, contemplating the differences between seventy-five different sets of silverware for our registry, as if our satisfaction with every meal for the rest of our lives depends entirely on whether our forks have rounded handles or square ones. My fiancee finds it amusing that even though I profess to not have any sort of preferences about these things, as soon as I'm actually holding two spoons in my hand and comparing them to each other, suddenly I have an absolutely fixed and unshakeable opinion as to which is "better." (And, purely coincidentally, it's pretty much always the cheaper one....)
I spent the entire two hours in Bed, Bath, etc somewhere on the border between amused and appalled at the number of products one can theoretically own, and the hard sell over at the registry department to get us to put one (or six) of everything on the list. The woman recommended that for a hundred guests, register for 300 items, because "no one's just going to get you a butter knife, and if they do, you should disinvite them." That is a lovely sentiment from Bed, Bath, and Beyond. If your friends don't buy you things, don't let them come to the wedding. Brilliant. We tried very hard to find things we don't really need, like a pie pan, and a meat thermometer, and a gigantic spoon, but still were only able to come up with 62 items. And most of them are pieces of silverware.
I'm as guilty as anyone of imagining some sort of fantasy adult life, where I use a whisk, and am able to use a corkscrew without breaking the cork, but it still seems sort of sensible to have a general rule that if, in our first quarter-century of life, we have not used a certain item, whatever it may be, it is unlikely to find much use in the next seventy-five years. I grant as an exception my number one registry desire, an ice cream maker. Even though people have told me all I need is ice, salt, and a plastic bag, I know myself well enough to know that I'm not going to end up making ice cream in a ziploc and I will need some more help to get me to do it. I'm convinced that even though up until now I have subsisted on store-bought ice cream, there is some space under the satisfaction curve that I can capture for myself by being able to make beet-and-celery-root ice cream, or turkey-and-cranberry-sauce ice cream, or smoked-gouda-and-ketchup ice cream. Even if I end up throwing most of it away after one bite.
My mom has a set of dishes from her wedding thirty years ago that have sat in a cabinet in the living room for my entire life. They have never been used. The silverware is still in its original plastic packaging. These are the special occasion dishes, I was told as a child. We are still waiting for that special occasion. My fiancee and I may acquire these dishes under the abandonment statute. I mean, if I were to merely take them from the cabinet, no one would ever know they were missing. Even better, if they were no longer there, my mom could move the never-used crockpot and fondue set from the garage into the cabinet, so that they will be ready for use should the need arise. Because the only reason they've never been used is because it's too hard to go into the garage every time you want fondue.
The Barry Schwartz book, Paradox of Choice, talks about how our consumer culture has gotten a bit overwhelming, with more choices than we can ever rationally evaluate. There were products in the store that I just don't understand why we need multiple manufacturers producing. Ironing boards, for instance. An ironing board is an ironing board. I don't know what features a more expensive ironing board could possibly provide. A pet vacuum is really just a vacuum, no? Unless it's designed for pets to actually be able to use to vacuum (which would be neat!), I don't understand what the special feature of it is. Toaster ovens that can roast a turkey should just be called ovens, especially if they don't actually make toast. The world needs to decide why we sell nylon spatulas when nylon spatulas melt when they touch a hot pan. Also, why we sell metal tongs that conduct heat and burn you when you touch the ends. The difference between a candy thermometer and a meat thermometer has not yet been explained to me. And I don't know anyone who has ever made homemade candy in their oven. A cookie sheet is a cookie sheet. A muffin tin is a muffin tin. A box grater is a box grater.
And a fork is a fork, whether it has a frosted handle or a square edge, or beveling, whatever beveling is.
As you can imagine from this post, I am a joy to walk with through Bed, Bath, and Beyond, while holding a scanner and a checklist.
