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Watch me rebut “The 2013 Hater’s Guide To The Williams-Sonoma Catalog”

gold plated yacht

Every year (for two years, I know) some snarky dude at Deadspin (OK he’s pretty legit with books and stuff but that doesn’t make him an arbiter of taste) snarks all over the Williams-Sonoma holiday catalog. So rude, like snarking on the Neiman Marcus Holiday fantasy gift book. That’s for jealous people.


This year, I couldn’t take it any more so I shall rebut. TL;DR These are GIFTS, for the PERSON WHO HAS EVERYTHING. Like all the poor Gwyneth Paltrows you know. Jeez. Duh.

Handmade Snowflake Marshmallows


Apparently, this dude has never eaten a marshmallow that wasn’t made out of high fructose corn syrup, dextrose, and bat guano, because those things are nasty. Making your own  is a delisious, messy pain in the ass. If I was throwing a winter bonfire I would totally make my own unless I didn’t have time, and then I would buy these.

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Best Wedding Ever

So, having been engaged for 6 years or so, a lot of people ask me when I’m getting married. Couples I think of as barely knowing each other are doing it, so what’s up with me? If I wasn’t going to get married, why get the bling? (Um, duh.) Don’t I want presents!?!?! (Um, no thanks, my stuff is already nicer.)

A few minutes ago, I was in the shower exfoliating to the sweet strains of Nate Dogg, and I realized that when he sings at my eventual (spectacular) wedding, he should totally rework “I Got Love” in a romantical way. I can hire him a flautist to accompany. It will be THE GREATES WEDDING EVARRRR!!! And that’s what I started telling people a while back: “I’ll get married when I can get Nate Dogg to sing at my wedding. Do you have any contacts in the music industry?” That shuts most of them down. Because once you’ve been engaged for six years and counting, you can’t actually get married in a quiet little ceremony at city hall followed by a hot buffet of Pizza Bagels and box wine. That would just be too anticlimactic. The window for doing that closed about five and a half years ago, you know? At this point, we gotta go big or go home (and live in sin).

So I’ve taken to speculating on the nature of the Best Wedding Ever, since I’ve been advertising it to nosy acquaintances as a cross between Cirque de Soleil and and a live Richard Pryor performance with a touch of the Paris Ritz. Really,the Imaginary BWE is the only thing that would entice me to go through what I’ve observed to be an exquisite torture devised entirely by greedy businesspersons – worse even than trying to tell the CA DMV that you haven’t lived there for 2 years and your car has in fact been registered in TWO states that aren’t California since I lived there, and how about they stop trying to collect my registration fee already?!

But I digress.

The Best Wedding Ever would include a week’s accommodation on a private island and luxurious transportation for all guests. Guests would include foreign dignitaries who are just unimportant enough to be able to get totally blotto, Lady Gaga, and everyone I ever met who expressed even the slightest interest in coming.

There would be performing tigers.

Catering by Hubert Keller of Fleur de Lys.

A giant replica of the fountain in Forsyth Park in Savannah would flow with fine champagne at all hours (although we would switch it to White Star after 2am).This fountain has spraying action so bitches can get sprayed with bubbly in their bikinis any time they choose!

There would be a giant igloo filled with caviar and vodka.

You get the picture, right.

It’s a fun pastime, sort of a slightly upgraded version of “what would I do if I won the lottery?” Highly recommended for passing the time in the shower or when you’re doing laundry or something and you need stuff to think about that doesn’t make you want to take enough Valium that you’ll be vacuuming the same piece of carpet for the rest of the afternoon with ablank stare on your face.

At least, it never puts me in a bad mood.

#5 Worrying About Your Drink

So, it’s spring, and I’ve grown incredibly addicted to cheap champagne over ice in a tall glass. It’s delightful – like French Natural Light.

But I’m kind of embarrassed, because, well, what a trashy sort of thing to drink. You certainly can’t order it somewhere, or offend someone in their home by requesting they serve what you think of as cheap champagne on the rocks. What kind of white trash heathen are you? Next you’ll be turning your nose up at the Goose, asking for Gilbey’s (note: when selecting a vodka sold in plastic, choose one with an Irish name; or is it never choose one with an Irish name – can’t recall).

Sure, in certain circles PBR is the go-to drink of choice, and I couldn’t be more thrilled: cheap, okay-tasting beer in cans is a joy of convenience and thrift, easy to transport, store, and chill, easy to recycle, and easy to drink. I don’t need every drink I put in my mouth to be a thought-provoking exercise in making up ever-more evocative ways of describing my take on what I’m drinking. Sometimes I just want to get tipsy.

So hipsters can drink their PBR, and students are allowed to drink anything, and WASP-y Lilly Pulitzer-wearing matrons can drink white wine with ice, but whenever I discover an awesome new drink I’m paralyzed with social fear. How will I give up my beloved Freixnet on ice when I have to leave the house. MY best solution so far is to entertain a lot this summer, where I can fix my own drinks in safety. Or I could just spurn social gatherings altogether and do a lot less cleaning or fretting about how toned my arms look in pictures.

Then for some people there’s the whole signature drink thing. I usually go through phases (some quite long) of passionately drinking just one thing for a while until I find something more delicious, more seasonal, or with better packaging. But I too have pondered the serious question (come on, I’m all about pondering deeply frivolous questions) “what do I drink at a bar?”

You know what I mean, right? Like, a lot of people will just have a beer, or order a glass of wine or whatever but those people are copping out. Like me, they’re afraid to dig into the dense symbiology of what drink – what ONE drink – represents them. Sure you get clothes, you get the cachet (or lack thereof) inherent in your watering hole, and one or two other signifiers, but really, you’re getting judged on your drink. And from the minute you order it, too, because bartenders hate it when you order a glass of your cheapest champagne on ice. Or anything weird, really. For whatever reason, mixing drinks is no fun for them.

Anyway, I don’t like a lot of mixed drinks. I’ve already consumed my lifetime ration of G&Ts, and to be honest, the only time I like tonic is when the taste of gin is drowning out the quinine, so for a while I tried to do vodka & sodas, but then I always ended up with vodka & tonics, and the bartenders hate taking back your drink after you spat it back in the glass. So vodka& soda is a little hit or miss.

I truly enjoy both martinis and manhattans, but it’s not always the thing to belly up to a tall glass of liquor. Of course sometimes it’s just what the doctor ordered and so you’ll want to find the best of both at reliable nearby night spots, but I guess I’m not much of a writer lately since I just can’t have one of those as My Drink. Besides the fact that I’d never be able to drive anywhere or remember anyone’s name, ladies with large glasses of liquor are sometimes not looked upon positively. The reverse is that I’m more likely to be indulged with ice in my wine, but still. Men get all the good drinks.

Whiskey & soda is good. No one would ever accidentally put tonic in whiskey and expect you to live with it, so it’s safe from the dread quinine.

But I always end up with a sad glass of white wine that’s altogether too easy to drink in one fell gulp.

So I try to have an open mind, match my drink with my moods, and get as much champagne on ice I can swill in the privacy of my own home. Until July, when I’ll switch to bourbon iced tea. Trust, it’s delish.

And in the time I’ve spent pondering this important signifying detail in my life, I could have… Well, loads of things. But at least I got this problem crossed of my list. Whew.

#4 Waxing

Should I? Shouldn’t I? Maybe I should get laser hair removal? An Epilady? Oh heaven help us I can’t decide how to remove my unwanted body hair!

Some people just go to the drugstore and pick whatever looks easy.

^Those with altogether too few problems can afford to comparison shop every waxing salon in the metropolitan area.

And some people don’t depilate at all!

My first clue that this problem isn’t worth the headache.

Don’t even get me started

on people who PAY for a font for their resume!

#3 Finding the Perfect Font for Your Resume

Because the only people for whom this will matter are people who have 19 spare hours to spend looking at every font every designed.

Rather than hustling for a buck or two.

And honestly, anyone whose job relies on the perfect font just just doesn’t. even. know. Do they?

He Disagrees

Is this the face of a dog that has enough attention?

#2 Expensive Dog Food

I seriously spend altogether too much time thinking about what the dog eats. This exotic, gigantic, sensitive beast represents a large investment, let me tell you, and I psychoanalyze his every whim in an effort to- let’s be honest I have no idea why I worry so much about the dog. He licks the floor. And my shoes. And poop. He sleep 19 hours a day. He’s lived in two countries, 3 states, and 8 houses, and all he ever worried about was the relative speed of the local squirrels.

He’s altogether better adjusted than I am.

He’ll be okay if I spend 77% less time thinking about his diet.

I mean, maybe he’ll die of malnutrition, but then he shouldn’t be that frail, should he?

Because Sometimes I Can’t Help but Laugh at the Stuff That Makes me Pull my Hair Out…

Because, really, I’m bored.

Problem #1: Boredom.

Why not make fun of myself where other poor sad folks with the same trials and tribulations can sympathize? Or cut me down to size. Whichever.