Saturday, June 02, 2007

Dear Pottery Barn Kids,

I admit surprise upon finding your catalog with my mail delivery. Perhaps you found my address deep in the brackish waters of the Williams-Sonoma summer catalog mailing, dreams of clambakes and lobster rolls nestled among its many pages, but you should leave the unwilling alone.

Furious at your gall (What if I couldn't have children? What if they antagonized me?), I called your 800 number, and the most delightful woman answered. I lost my fight. I was being bratty. She made right what you made wrong.  She sympathized like an oma who adores you.

Also, does Abby really need that giant bathroom? I guess she does. Do Erica and Logan need that cabana? With lockers? It freaks me out, PBK. It makes me feel gross and indulgent, which I guess I am by many standards. I have bathrooms! I have no time for extra existential crises, PBK! I will fight you back, crises! Como Mac Dre, I switch hit, and play with both mitts (Rest in thizz, Furl). Do not start!

We're square. I have to eat something.

The D.L.

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