Things You Can Do Better: Pottery Barn

Have you ever looked at someone else’s work and knew at once that you could do better?

You might have experienced this feeling after watching Zack Snyder’s Sucker Punch, or reading Stephenie Meyer’s Twilight. It’s that sense of “Oh my God, people actually make money doing this?” coupled with despair and frank bewilderment. Why are people becoming rich doing things like this while you’re working at Blockerbuster earning minimum wage? You can totally do better than them.

This is how I feel every time I read a Pottery Barn catalogue. Yes, bad movies and novels are one thing, but at least they still require a great amount of time and personal commitment to complete. But how can you butcher a three sentence description in Pottery Barn? Now let’s be clear here. I don’t make a hobby of reading Pottery Barn catalogues. But inevitably, when I’m stuck in the dentist’s office, and stupidly forget my novel, I always end up reading Pottery Barn. If only because I still go to a pediatric dentist office for some reason, so my choice of reading material often don’t stretch beyond American Baby, Highlights, and Pottery Barn.

This is my favourite description from my most recent Pottery Barn foray.

“Found Grainsacks”

Ranging in age from 50 to 80 years old, these beautifully hand woven vintage muslin sacks were once used by grain farmers in Eastern Europe for transporting grains to the mill. Monogrammed pieces have cross-stitched initials that identified them after milling. Slight marks and variations distinguish these grain sacks as authentic vintage pieces; let us choose for you. Use them with our king-sized pillow inserts (sold separately) to create truly unique pillow covers.

Grainsack $89 Monogrammed Grainsack $99

There is so much in this description that makes me sad, I hardly know where to start. A “found grainsack” in this instance must have to mean “bought very cheaply from a family that obviously did not know the value of its ancestors’ muslin sack heritage,” because how else could Pottery Barn get away with selling a single grainsack for $89 dollars? Or a monogrammed one (monogrammed with not your initials, mind you, but the original grainsack owners’) for $99? After all, a grainsack without any grain inside it isn’t very useful: Pottery Barn admits that much. That’s why they’ll sell you the pillow insert for an additional $20! That’s about $110 per pillow. Do you know how many pillows I can buy at Target for that amount (it’s about eleven, I just looked it up)? Also, do you really want to wrap a 50 to 80 year old grainsack around the thing you’ll be putting your face on every night after it’s been carried over the sweaty shoulders of burly European men and tossed on the backs of their hairy, unwashed donkeys for an unknown period of years? Because when you get down to it, that’s the sort of splendid opportunity you’re paying for. This grainsack has been used and abused in unspeakably horrible ways for all its natural life, and you’re paying for the opportunity to rub your face in its nefarious legacy night after night. Don’t get me wrong, I love history. But this is a little too close and personal for my comfort.

Originally, I was going to devote an entire post to all the ridiculous things people do to make money. But then I realized that the possibilities in this category are truly endless. So, until next time, enjoy your $110 pillow!

Crapplications

Crapplication

[cr-ap-li-key-shuh ]

Noun

1. The form through which one can apply for a minimum wage job, particularly when one is overqualified for minimum wage work in theory but not in actuality.

My best friend coined this word a few days ago when we were lamenting our post-graduation job prospects. It took me approximately three days to realize that firstly, there are no real jobs in Buffalo for people without real professional experience, and secondly, the thought of establishing my career in Buffalo fills me with deep and unquenchable despair. These two realizations led me to formulate my current life plan.

Make as much money as possible and leave Buffalo ASAP.

Sadly (for Buffalo) I’m not the only Buffalo grad, much less English grad, feeling this way. Like a sinking war ship, Buffalo grads are swarming out of the city like rats to avoid drowning in the treacherous job pool. And yet, leaving Buffalo still requires great financial sacrifice. This creates a horrible, vicious circle of joblessness and despair that looks something like this:

However, there is one way out of this prophecy of doom, and that is through the crapplication. Though competition for minimum wage jobs is fierce, since highschoolers and laid off adults alike struggle for even this meager salary, college grads still have a chance. It may be slim, yet it is there. This alone holds the seductive promise of wild fantasies and unimaginable adventures in my bountiful future.

You know, once I save enough money to start my real adult life at thirty.

But, I’ve also realized something important. The circumstances under which ones applies and works a minimum wage job has a great impact on other people’s perceptions of your less-than-spectacular career.

For example, I live at home. I also work at a fish market, and recently applied to Victoria’s Secret. The implications of this are not so great for me. The very fact that I could potentially count clams one day and sell women’s underwear the next is very disturbing for everyone, including myself. Throw in the fact that I live at home, and the entire affair seems abnormal, strange. Not right. Like I must be plotting something insidious and unspeakable twisted that involves a basement. It probably involves lotion somehow. The giant old SUV I inherited from my father suddenly looks like a murderous hearse. I lure children inside it pretending it’s the Hogwart’s Express.

But if we change several variables in this equation, suddenly the whole thing seems a lot less creepy and much more reasonable. For example, if I happened to be working in the above jobs whilst living in a studio apartment with three other people, maybe even riding a bike to and from my respective jobs instead of driving the creepy murder van, all of a sudden I become a young intellectual trying to make it.

Wait a second.

Did I just describe a hipster?

Shit.