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Beware the Gift Counselor

Like so many other women I get my share of invitations to showers for women only vaguely known to me- daughters or granddaughters of people at work or a new neighbor I've just met. Last week I got an invitation to a bridal shower to a bridal shower of a lovely girl who worked in the floral shop down in the mall.

Dutifully, I set out to find the gift registry desk of the bride's choice. Only a few years ago, the registry was for wedding presents only. But in this case there was a woman ahead of me arranging a shower for a second child. Now among my circle of acquaintances, after the first child is feted amd born, all the siblings that follow get his/her hand-me-downs in order of birth. This mother was having none of that. Perhaps she had made new friends-rich ones-and had decided it was time for a fresh start.

In any case, the woman was taking her time making out a list of what this baby was going to need . And it was endless.
I examined the drapes and the towels nearby while I waited.
When my turn came the gift consultant checked her computer and informed me that the bride's list had to be faxed from Boston. She got on the phone. It would be another delay. I browsed my way through dozens of sheets, duvets, shams and dust ruffles.
The list, when it finally arrived, was a lot shorter than the time I spent waiting for it. One face cloth, two towels, and a pair of pillow cases in Wedgwood. That was all there was to choose from. And none of the items were available in Wedgwood. I decided to wing it. Marching to the lingerie department I picked out a fluff of pink gauze and satin with matching see-through panties. With any luck the bride would wear it for five minutes. If she didn't like it, she could return it in the morning.
At the party, I shortly realized my mistake. This was a linen shower. So much for pink fluff. Everyone else had faithfully stuck to the list. When my gift was opened, I shamefacedly confessed that the list of items left at the registry seemed limited. The bride, nodded forgivingly. Then she told her story.
She had gone to the gift registry in Boston and had immediately found herself under the thumb of a dominatrix. She was handed a list and told, "Pick your colors." The bride had hesitated and smiled politely, her first mistake. Then she made her second. She said, "Make it assorted."
The dominatrix eyed her coldly. "You can't do that," she snorted. "You have to pick at least one color."
The bride was struck dumb.

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