If someone gifted me with a gravy boat, I’d most likely use it as a last resort for my morning coffee when all my other mugs were being held captive in the dishwasher. The chances of seeing said gravy boat in all its glory, center court on my lavishly decorated Thanksgiving Day table spread, are slim to none. Not only would that require me knowing how to set a table, but also other minor details — like how to cook a turkey without giving everyone salmonella.
When I got engaged I was prepared to answer the squealing questions about how he proposed, where we met, when the date was, and the like. I was not prepared for the question that would become the first Pandora’s Box in the world of wedding madness:
“Where are you going to register?”
My first issue wasn’t the “where” part – it was the “why.” News flash: I’ve lived on my own for more than 10 years, with my fiancée for more than two, and in that time I’ve had my fair share of toasters, coffee makers, bed sheets, towels, utensils, blenders, and George Foreman grills. Don’t get me wrong – I like new things, especially shiny, new things for the kitchen. I’m just not sure I need any of it.