Eat Pray Love merch

Get a whiff of this: Fresh has created three perfumes to celebrate the release of Eat Pray Love, the movie that will almost certainly match the crazy success of Elizabeth Gilbert’s memoir of the same name. I love lasagna as much as the next gal, but I don’t want to smell like a primi piatti.

But wait, there’s more on the brandwagon: Home Shopping Network has created a “shopping experience” of vaguely ethnic crap inspired by Gilbert’s travels to Italy, India, and Bali. We don’t need to order up a handcarved horse bench from HSN; that’s what Pier 1 is for. How do you say “duh” in Balinese? From pasta makers to power beads, an Eat Pray Shop collection sort of seems—call me crazy—counter-intuitive to the spirit of the book.

What’s next? A Liz Gilbert action figure who comes with a pizza pie, yoga mat, and Brazilian husband who looks vaguely like Javier Bardem? Please, Viking Penguin or whoever is selling the ancillary rights, revoke this license to schill. The world doesn’t need another papasan chair littering grad student apartments and rummage sales.

(photo: fresh.com)

Precious Moments

These china clowns, cherubs, and rascals skipped through the nightmares of my youth and I’m still holding a grudge (when I’m not huddled in the fetal position). They traveled in big-eyed packs, alongside Love’s Baby Soft, window crystals, and rainbow stickers. They may have been pastel, but they were far from soothing.

Precious Moments really exploded when I was knee-sock-deep into Catholic school, so it was no surprise that I was initially drawn to their cheeky innocence. I had one particularly adorbs lamb that I lifted from a nativity scene. I wanted to hug it and kiss it and call it my own. After about five minutes, however, I moved onto Shaun Cassidy and put my porcelain pet out to pasture.

But that was not enough to corral the horror. Tears of a clown would rain down my face at the thought of the baby mimes and toddler princesses littering the Hallmark store at the Fairplain Plaza. What really gets my goat now is the thought of all these evil Enesco eyesores sitting on shelves and in cabinets around the world. I’ll finally give them an actual reason for those sad eyes: my hammer coming toward their shiny, happy faces.

(photo: carolscrafts.com)

Silk flowers

Mom, commenting on the décor of the trailer she bought in Texas for the winter months: “My goll, you should have seen this place when we bought it. It was filled with rag-nasty plastic flowers.”

Me: “Ugh, I hate those. I mean, what’s the point?”

Mom: “Yeah, I threw them out and replaced them with some really nice silk flowers.”

Me: “Uh….”

I love that my mother sees a marked class difference between plastic and silk flowers. To me, they are all the same: fake, non-fragranced doodads I have to dust. Why clutter up your home with bouquets of immortal meh?

I realize you may not be home long enough to keep a plant alive or you have a black thumb or you can't afford to buy cut flowers very often or your cat could die if he chewed on a lily, but here's my question: Why do you need anything at all? If you like the look of flowers, just get a print of some sunflowers or put a daisy magnet on the fridge. Don't clutter up the place with phony ferns and bogus pots of orchids.

Nip these faux-ers in the bud and leave them where they belong: in a retail garden (i.e. Michaels, aisle 7).

(photo: www.plasticbinsblog.com)

Commemorative plates

Michael Jackson isn’t even in the ground yet and already, the vultures are circling. I’m not not talking about the paparazzi or relatives looking for a mention in the will.

Nope, I’m referring, of course, to the Bradford Exchange. Kissing cousin to the Franklin Mint, this company has already put out a hideous commemorative MJ plate. The Spencer Gifts-ish art blows: I am afraid either the eyes will follow me or they'll morph into a cheetah when I look away. I guess that’s okay, since whoever buys this crap deserves to be a jungle cat’s snacklet.

After 9/11, I was working for a book publisher who was rushing to press a commemorative photo book on the Twin Towers. When I protested, I was told that "We should not apologize for making books that people want." I get that. But let's not pretend that it's not gross.

I grew up amidst tchotchkes: Hummel figurines, glass slippers, beer cans, miniature trains, souvenir spoons and thimbles, antique baskets. I had a lot of shit to dust. But the most disturbing thing had to be the Emmett Kelly clown plates. As I lay tossing and turning in my twin bed, tormented by images of the sad-faced clown, I wanted to give that plate a real reason to look sad.

Princess Di’s wedding and death, presidential inaugurations, a Thomas Kinkade Christmas—why do these occasions drive folks to fork over hard-earned clams for a porcelain plate rimmed in precious metal that will never see the dinner table? If you’re looking for wall art, why not buy a Farrah poster or some sort of rad black velvet Elvis poster? Those are much easier on the eyes and won’t hurt you in the event of an earthquake.

As a smooth criminal, I want to hijack the entire fug shipment of MJ collector’s plates—the only plate with art personally approved by Michael Jackson himself!—smash them, and make limited-edition mosaic tables out of the shards, which I’ll sell for three easy payments of $19.95.

If I see a Michael Jackson Beanie Baby, heads are gonna roll.