With our humblest a(nthro)pologies

Ok, so, we’ve been a little quieter than intended here.  Somehow, we went from a full docket of projects, to the extent that we were jockeying for who was going to get to post next, to total radio silence.  For months.

There are reasons.  Oh, yes, there are reasons.  Admittedly, a lot of those reasons hover awfully close to the boundary of being excuses.  In the simplest of terms, simultaneously, things got very weird.

And then they got very real.

And then they got really, really weird.

Life seems to be settling down somewhat, and we are perilously close to ready, if not eager, to resume normal activities like making things! doing stuff!  talking about making things and doing stuff!  We’d like to say that it’ll be nothing but full swing again from here on out, but realistically, the holidays that are immediately ahead of us, and the really-weirdness that is only very shortly behind us will probably keep things quiet until the new year.

But we are sorry.  Really, we are.

As it turns out, we are sorry for our failings in excellent company, because oh, let us tell you, we are not the only ones with some serious apologizing to do.  We would like, above all else in this world, to call Anthropologie to the WTF mat.  Which is probably a real thing that you can buy at Urban Outfitters, but that’s not the point.

Here’s the thing about Anthropologie:  we love Anthropologie.  We una(nthro)pologetically shop there at regular intervals.  They are our first stop for all manner of things – hardware! candles! gifts! accessories! inspiration!  And then, just when we think we’ve reached an excellent place of accord, they do something plumb crazy and make us wonder what particular frequency of crazy they, and all their customers, must be vibrating at.

Have you seen their 2014 gift catalog?  Does the mere mention make your brain turn slightly slushy and yet full of ill-defined anger?

Yeah, us too.

It starts out so promising:

featherFeathers?  Teal?  Bold penstroke fonts?  Yes, thank you, we accept.  And why wouldn’t we?  This lovely bit of glossy aspiration has just assured us that we are fundamentally like them.  We belong.  Excellent.

There are certainly things in these pages that are perfect – that wonderful, hard-to-find kind of perfect that promises you that this item, these things, would slide effortlessly into your home and life and décor, creating almost no splash or ripple, and yet flawlessly enhancing not just their surroundings, but really, your entire being.  Say, for example, you had recently redone your dining room in deep green-kissed navy and warm antique gold (which Shannon did!  behold the lack of posts on the subject!  again:  so very sorry, have we said that?) then baby, this page of giftables is for you:

fine

See?  Perfect.  Who doesn’t love a good objet?

There’s also always things that you can appreciate without being appalled by the cost – either because you harbor delusions of DIY, or are convinced you can find similar at a more sensible price elsewhere.  Like hand-made felted blankets:

throw

Ok.  Sure.  They’re kind of gaudy, and terrifyingly overpriced.  Also, there’s something charmingly delusional about touting the joys of a handmade life while charging hundreds of dollars for the privilege of someone else’s hands doing the dirty work.  But we get it.  They’re pretty.  They’re quaint.  They’re the kind of idiosyncratic décor that declares the owner to be just-funky-enough.  This, on our best day and in our best dreams, is our wheelhouse, and we respect it.

Unfortunately, these little snippets of bliss are lost in a sea of utter ridiculousness.  Behold:

dirtNo doubt there is someone out there who truly believes these are the ideal gift for a gardener.  Pro tip: THESE GO IN DIRT.  Nothing says crazy quite like spending $130 on copper-clad artwork that you shove into holes in the ground, right?

Nothing except $158 potted plants, anyway:

orchidOne. Hundred. And. Fifty. Eight. Dollars. For something that is likely, if not destined, to die after a short, rapidly dessicating life! Seriously, for $160, we could buy and accidentally kill 70 houseplants from Lowes, and shove their blighted carcasses into all the glass orbs ever.  Side note:  the glass orb?  Super cute, and ridiculously affordable at $4, especially next to a ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY EIGHT DOLLAR FLOWERING TUB OF SOIL AND WEEDS.

Seriously, for that price, that’s not a plant, it’s a pet.  It might even warrant a college fund.  You definitely don’t just put it artfully on a table to just…plant around with its bare foliage hanging out.  You take that thing out on errands – hell, you tell it to get purdy and then you take it out on dates.  Preferably, of course, strapped safely onto the back of your Anthro-approved bike:

bikeOnly $3500.  $3500, and they’ve left it carelessly strewn about, covered in vines and suspended by a tangled mass of jute.  $3500, and it doesn’t even make you cookies or massage your feet while you pedal. $3500, and you still have to pedal!

No.  Oh, precious lambs, no.

Here’s the thing about Anthropologie:  just when you think you’ve reached ridiculousness saturation, and you can walk away with your wallet and dignity intact, they always find a way to suck you back in.  After all the eyerolling that some of these “gifts” inspired, we think they knew they’d have to dig deep and work extra hard to win us back, and oh, they did:

toddle

 Ambiguously ethnically diverse toddlers:  check.  Fabulous dress-ups in a smattering of woodland-creature-esque motifs:  check.  Tutus as far as the eye can see:  check.  This play date is on it’s way to being a tea party we can get into. Hell, this might be a tea party we have to have.  Ourselves.  Right now.

Fine, Anthropologie.  We will accept this as your token show of remorse and remonstration.  For now.

We’ll try and take a bit of time off from our busy holiday (read: shopping.  probably at Anthropologie, because we are terrible, terrible people) schedules, but just in case, we will also just go ahead and apologize in advance for not posting again til January.