When I was younger and living with my parents in northern Massachusetts, the dread of my summer would be realized when my mother would arm herself with garden sheers and plastic shopping bags and declare that we would be heading out in search for the ever elusive �Celastrus orbiculatus� plant, otherwise known as "Bittersweet".

Bittersweet, for those people who weren't traumatized with it as a child, is a woody vine with bright orange berries that�s apparently quite precious to arts & crafts aficionados across the country. Bittersweet is quite a sought after little plant because of how easily it's twisted into charming little wreaths that one may give away as cheap yet delightful gifts that will bestow any room with unexpected whimsy. I�m sure my mother was secretly hoping to have some of her friends come over after a weekend of Bittersweet hunting and walk into our kitchen and gasp.

�Oh Eunice, here I was, thinking I was going to walk into a regular kitchen,� they would exclaim �and I find myself totally blown away by this quaint country kitchen�s insane amounts of unexpected whimsy!� Then they would walk to where the Bittersweet would be lining the walls and run their fingers lightly over the wreath�s twiggy tendrils mouthing �so much whimsy� silently to no one but themselves and the little orange berries, as my mother smugly looked on.

Just hearing that the plans for the next day would involve Bittersweet, my sister and I would throw ourselves into convulsions on the floor where we would spend a great deal of time bemoaning our fate and wondering why we couldn't have been adopted by a loving couple who wouldn't make us sit the side of the road while our mother and her best friend would stand hip deep in undergrowth shoving branches into plastic shopping bags they got from Shaw�s.

Bittersweet, however, is only but one ring in my childhood summer-time hell. But shall we move deeper into the When I was younger and living with my parents in northern Massachusetts, the dread of my summer would be realized when my mother would arm herself with garden sheers and plastic shopping bags and declare that we would be heading out in search for the ever elusive Celastrus orbiculatus plant, otherwise known as "Bittersweet".

Bittersweet, for those people who weren't traumatized with it as a child, is a woody vine with bright orange berries that�s apparently quite precious to arts & crafts aficionados across the country. Bittersweet is quite a sought after little plant because of how easily it's twisted into charming little wreaths that one may give away as cheap yet delightful gifts that will bestow any room with unexpected whimsy. I'm sure my mother was secretly hoping to have some of her friends come over after a weekend of Bittersweet hunting and walk into our kitchen and gasp.

"Oh Eunice, here I was, thinking I was going to walk into a regular kitchen," they would exclaim "and I find myself totally blown away by this quaint country kitchen's insane amount of unexpected whimsy!" Then they would walk to where the Bittersweet would be lining the walls and run their fingers lightly over the wreath's twiggy tendrils mouthing "so much whimsy?" silently to no one but themselves and the little orange berries, as my mother smugly looked on.

Just hearing that the plans for the next day would involve Bittersweet, my sister and I would throw ourselves into convulsions on the floor where we would spend a great deal of time bemoaning our fate and wondering why we couldn't have been adopted by a loving couple who wouldn't make us sit the side of the road while our mother and her best friend would stand hip deep in undergrowth shoving branches into plastic shopping bags they got from Shaw's.

Bittersweet, however, is only but one ring in my childhood summer-time hell. But shall we move deeper into the abyss, onto something far more evil than subjecting your children to the elements and poisonous creeping vines. Yes, I'm talking about dragging your children along while you go antique shopping. We seemed to do this a lot, but my mother never bought anything though, she just liked to look. Probably just to spite me or to get back at me for eating an entire bottle of Flintstone vitamins that one time (they made me vomit a rainbow of colors!). Much to my mother's pleasure (and my chagrin) we lived in an area of New England ripe with little antique junk stores where one could spend a day among barrels of old skeleton keys, wooden mermaid figure heads, and baby prams.

I have very bad memories tied to most of the towns on the north shore of Massachusetts and a few select ones in Southern New Hampshire where I spent a lot of my time sitting outside odd shops with a glum look on my face tossing stones into the road while my mother inquired within about an ancient weathervane or a broken wagon wheel that would just look absolutely charming sitting out in the garden. The few times I was actually in the stores, I was told every 28 seconds to keep my hands securely behind my back and not to touch anything. This rule was obviously put into place once it was discovered that I had the super human ability to break almost anything within the first minute I got my hands on it. The phrase "Michael...he broke it" was not alien to my ears.

With my need for distruction and fear of stores, you can probably image what was running through my head this afternoon as Pete and I walked through the Pfaltzgraff factory store in Flemmington. I was surrounded on all sides by tall, flimsy looking wooden shelves holding hundreds of ceramic plates, saucers, mugs and bowls of all shapes and sizes. My first impulse was to run screaming, with my arms flailing out besides me, into the nearest display case where I would be greeted by the sweet sound of china smashing as I was thrown to the floor and impaled by the shards of discontinued Christmas pasta bowls (the ones with the creepy looking polar bears on them, not the ones with the retarded holly berries).

Of course I was able to keep my cool long enough for the synapses in my brain to fire off in the correct order and remind me that I was a gay man in dire need of house wares and that there would be no impaling necessary. None of the housewares are for me, but for Pete because sometime this week his roommate is moving out and taking all of his belongings with him...which just happens to be pretty much everything in the apartment. So seeing that we�re going to soon be sitting in the middle of an empty apartment, eating food off of newspaper circulars and shoebox lids, Pete thought it might be a good idea to go out and get some plates. The sets at Target, however, were far too mundane for him and he wanted something more flashy and...cheap. So off we went to the factory store where they sell slightly irregular dinnerware at reasonably reduced prices. Just up Pete's alley.

He spent about an hour wandering back and forth between the rows looking for plates that were hip and trendy looking without making him come across as too faggy, just still conveyed his inner need to have his dinnerware match the glassware. I, on the other hand, walked around gasping at every interesting cookie jar and brightly colored butter dish and thought about how I desperately needed them and wondered if I would be able to find throw pillows to match (don�t get me started on throw pillows. I have a throw pillow problem that I am yet not able to talk about without drooling on myself).

After deciding on his pattern, Pete loaded up a cart and headed to the check out line. I, being distracted by something shiny in the corner, wandered away to investigate. When I returned (it was only a dime) I stood back a little bit from the line and allowed the cashier to wrap up Pete's purchases and load the cart. Watching the process for a few moments I noticed that the cashier flashing a blinding bright smile at Pete and making massive amounts of eye contact. I stood for a bit thinking about how cute it was that Pete was being hit on, until I remembered that Pete is my boyfriend and therefore I should be puffing myself up and glowering at the tall gay man who was all but asking for his phone number. But inside my brain, next to my innate need to procure accent pillows, is my mental center that controls how much I don�t care about things. This center rivals in size the area of my brain that demands that I consume massive amounts of cheese products, so suffice it to say, my I Don't Care tolerence is very high, and I really don�t care all that much about many things.

And I certainly don�t care if skinny, blonde men in reduced pottery outlets are hitting on my boyfriend. I almost hoped that Pete would start hitting back on the guy because it probably would have made his day, but he didn�t because he said that the guy making constant eye contact for the entire duration of the transaction creeped him out.

It�s really too bad though. Pete could have made nice with the guy and invited him over for dinner or something. I could have cooked and played hostess by pulling out my purple throw pillow collection. The gay Pottery Outlet man would let out a gasp and say "Oh Michael! I am agog at your museum quality collection of accent pillows!" and then he would salivate slightly and run his fingers over their beaded, purple surface while quietly mumbling to himself, "So much whimsy!"