Bitter. Over butterknives.

While sitting in advertising the other day, my friend Wai Mei, who’s marrying herself off this June, pulled her wedding registry up. Warren was on her left and I’m pretty sure he could’ve cared less. Jen Y was to her right and to my left (ok so did you follow that? Have the seating chart all figured out?) and she on the other hand did care. She turned to me and voiced something that I’ve bitched about several times this past month: what’s the damn deal with this short-ass stick that singles get?

Here I am, 26 and very rapidly approaching 27 (lucky number 7!!!), and although I have a delightful collection of handbags, a decent lineup of shoes, pretty good clothes on my back, and a makeup collection, which, let’s be honest here, is amazing, you know what I gots in terms of apartment goodies? I have a shitty chair from Ikea that is stained with black dye from some black lace gloves Tracy wore to the 80s party, I have a set of FOUR places settings from TARGET, I have mismatched glasses from Bed, Bath and Beyond, and I have silverware from Dick and Jane, circa 1985. I cook my ass off: do I have a gleaming Cuisinart? No, I have Jane’s hand me down from not 1985, but maybe 1992. My cousin Heather, daughter of Nancy, neither of whom can cook anything much beyond Hamburger Helper – want to know what she got from our family for her recent wedding? She got a shining, beautiful KitchenAid mixer that will likely collect dust in a hidden cabinet 10 feet about the countertops for years to come. Which is pretty much a crime against humanity.

This I call the curse of being single. There are plenty of lovely things that accompany singledom, but loads of gifts to furnish your home – from sparking Bacarat vases, shapely Waterford flutes, shimmering Christophe silver, delicate Ginori china to Le Creuset baking dishes and a full set of All Clad cookware – they, do not. None of them. Not one finely turned butter knife, not a single, lonely ramekin.

Nope, for us, it’s crappy kitchen ware and shitty furniture, b/c we’re in a state of transit. Why start buying good kitchen stuff when in a year from now you might be doing up the registry at Bloomie’s? Why bother getting nice furniture when you’re still renting and may be moving into dream home number 1 getting ready to decorate straight big girl style?

Essentially, the fate of my kitchen, the design of my ideal living space, is tied to someone that I likely have not even met… Conundrum, yes. This is further complicated by the fact that every day I become a little bit more convinced that men are mainly shitheads. Or at least, the ones I have been “fortunate” enough to meet are. Ok maybe I’ve met some that are ok, but they are blind to the fact that they are in love with me. And, yes, it’s true, my angst is heightened by the fact that in a very, very short time I have had two encounters with two very big douchefaces. No, actually, make that three. Number three I hate to include here, but recent events call for hard actions. Ok, now that? That was a rule-breaker. That was a brief window into my “personal” life. Sometimes you have to break rules to break ground. That’s what I always say at least. Umm, actually, I never say that. But it sounds good I think. Think I’ll pick it up.

So, there you have it. I am destined to continue cooking with subpar utensils, eating off sub-bar dishes, and chilling on sub-par furniture until someday, I can register. Or, I can pull a Carrie B, and just go register in honor of my single-dom. That is a thought to entertain… Please do let me know: if you received an invitation in the mail for a big party I was throwing (open bar!) to celebrate…being…27 and single…well, I know you would come, b/c it would inevitably be a super sweet party, but, would you bring a gift from my registry? After we talk, then, I can make the decision. In the mean time, I’ll be in San Fran for the weekend, looking at apartments to furnish with my half-ass furnishings. Ciao punkins.