This is an email joke - Long. Its like our Fortunoff!
At every Marshall Field's store, there is a floor where no heterosexual man should wander unaccompanied. It is the land of crystal goblets, sterling flatware, 500-threadcount fitted sheets and porcelain collectibles. In the corner, there is a quiet office labeled 'Bridal Registry.' It just takes the flash of a diamond ring to gain admittance.
Now, planning a wedding does funny things to a woman. She will harass her best friends until they purchase matching peach satin pumps, for instance. She will hiss 'It's my day' every day for six months.
But there is nothing like the pressure of the gift registry. In the
Simplest terms, this is the first and last time the bride will ever get to choose her own presents. And she's got to make every spatula count.
It's very important for the bride to get the registry right. These are the dishes that will greet her children for breakfast on their first day of school. These are the dishes that will serve sophisticated, brilliantly mixed dinner parties of 12. These are the dishes that will be thrown and shattered just prior to the legal separation.
I am pleased--nay, hysterical--to report that I finally had occasion to register. On a recent Saturday morning, I marched into Marshall Field's at Woodfield Mall and said, 'I need a gun.'
'You mean a scanner, dear,' responded the unruffled registry specialist.
'What a beautiful ring!'
The scanner resembles a gun, and emits a magical red laser that can read bar codes. This means that the registry process can be dizzyingly quick. Just covet and shoot.
The scanner is also an important tool for luring the engaged male into the store. Traditionally, the men handle the scanners. It makes them feel macho, even in the midst of decorative bath soaps. It's one of the consolation prizes for guys who have to sacrifice one or more televised sporting events.
They also seem to enjoy shopping for oversized cutlery and ice buckets.
But just as gun owners are screened, nobody gets a scanner without going through the orientation process first. There's a complimentary beverage, an enormous planning binder and some frank talk about soup ladles. Then the couple is set loose in the store to bicker over bakeware. Here are some of the items you can register for: Fondue pots. Luggage. Furniture. Wine.
Here are some of the items you cannot register for: Cars. Cash.
But it doesn't matter, because there are so many attractive bath mats to consider. We were comparing napkin rings over in Table Linens when my fiance stopped and looked at me. 'I think I get it,' he said. 'You've waited your whole life for this day, haven't you?'
'Yes,' I said.
He lowered his voice. 'This is more important than the wedding, isn't
it?'
'Yes,' I said, and zapped a dozen placemats.
Over the next couple of weeks, I obsessively visited my registry online, adding more towels, deleting the extravagant pizza cutter. I debated the 7-cup Cuisinart vs. the 12-cup Cuisinart with my mother. One day we made a trip to the Marshall Field's on State Street to view the dust ruffle selection in person.
My fiance settled into a chair to contentedly peruse Wedding Belles
magazine as I stood in line for an emergency consultation. The problem: It seems that there were no gravy boats available in my china pattern. Without a gravy boat, my entire registry could fall apart.
In front of me was a young lady who was worried about locating a very
Specific tablecloth with very specific dimensions. Behind me was a pretty blond who looked like she was about to cry.
'This is my fourth store registry,' she confided. She was in from out of town, and had another appointment in 20 minutes. The stakes were high: 'This is the only place that has my everyday dishes,' she said, beginning to panic, looking for her mother.
'You'll never make it,' I said, shaking my head. But I grasped the potential tragedy. Without everyday dishes, the newlyweds wouldn't stand a chance.
'Excuse me!' I shouted, throwing an elbow. 'This woman needs everyday dishes!
She needs a gun! Now!'
“Has she been through the orientation?' responded the unruffled registry specialist.
No. She needs to be oriented! Now!'
Nobody, I guess, wants a scene in the immediate vicinity of fragile pasta bowls.So help arrived quickly, and the bride was hustled off into the next room. Just before she disappeared around the corner, she turned around and stage-whispered to me, 'Thank you. But I didn't need thanks.
I just needed a gravy boat.
