Every junkie has her jones.

 A smoker likes her ciggies.

 A tippler likes her wine.

 Any addict needs her fix.

 Me, I’m partial to Pottery Barn. Pottery Barn catalogs, to be exact. I’ve heard rumors that there are actual Pottery Barn STORES somewhere. Giant mecca-like structures where one can sniff, touch, and wipe spots of their own drool off ACTUAL POTTERY BARN FURNITURE AND ACCESSORIES. I have not been able to follow-through on looking into this, however, because I always get a little week-kneed and lightheaded at the very thought. Imagine, if you will, the same reaction a choca-holic would get to, say, a Washington Monument sized piece of premium cocoa. THAT’S how I feel about the rumors of an actual Pottery Barn store.

 Casual. I love the Pottery Barn Catalog. All those sophisticated-yet-casual rooms in the pages look so refined. I practically drool on the pages as I lust after the good life represented within. Surely the chic woman who lives there has her act together. She is not digging through the hamper trying in vain to find a pair of matching socks for her second grader. Nor is she choosing upholstery based solely on what best hides pet hair and will last the decade and a half required before she can next afford new furniture. If I could just replicate that perfect blend of OCD neatness and casual elegance my life would surely be as organized and classy as hers.

 Then reality strikes. Real people live in my house. I must be consistently missing the page in the catalog where they showcase dog toys on the floor and coats on the backs of all the chairs? Loose shoes? Crumbs? More importantly, while my tastes may be sophisticated, my budget is not. I’m faced with the frugal Pottery Barn lovers’ dilemma: a tastefully chic little side table or groceries for a month? 

Taste. Tastes change. As I’ve recently revealed, for much of my adult life I was hopelessly shallow (as all twenty-somethings really should be) and cared more about the car I drove, and the clothes I wore, than how or where I lived. Suddenly, and seemingly overnight, things like “a dining room” and “eating at home” and “being in bed by 10:00 p.m.” became terrifically appealing to me. Accordingly, I don’t want a home full of furnishings culled exclusively from items left on the curb when friends and family moved. I

I want club chairs, comfy throws, tasteful knick-knacks, quality fabrics and a stainless steel baker’s rack. I am a grown-up, darnit, and I NEED to “bring style to everyday living with the fresh, timeless appeal of our latest bedding!” Who, after all, wants stale bedding?

My obsession with Pottery Barn clearly reveals my still-shallow self. I want a unique and notable life, without any real effort (beyond stretching my credit limit) on my part.

I don’t want to actually have to travel to Indonesia or some other remote location to bring back interesting souvenirs and photographs. Basically, I want to effortlessly make my life appear interesting even if it isn’t.

 Scoff. The problem with PB is that so much of what they feature is misleadingly simple. Flipping the pages of colorful wall treatments, artful ceramics, and striking photography  I scoff, ” Why would I buy that? I could make that!” and then I put down the catalog and go right on ahead and don’t make it because as it turns out, I don’t have the tools, skill, or motivation to do anything of the sort. Then I get kind of sad because I secretly really wanted it but I can’t abandon my self righteous I-could-make-that stance so I just resign myself to living a life without joy.  And without a teak console table in espresso stain.

 My greatest wish is that grocery stores had catalogs. It would be so refreshing to feel inadequate over cantaloupes instead of club chairs for a change.

 Not to mention that I could probably manage to live up to the expectations posed by salad.

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