Food chain

My Uncle Tom is a jewel on the earth. His recognition will have to come in heaven; life has been hard on him. He married a bitch--no way around it--who got herself three utterly useless PhDs on his income as a builder, and now--what, work??--she beats him over the head with her intellectual superiority, and betakes herself to exotic locales several times a year on income he earned with his hands. Their four kids could have gone either way--jewels or bitches; you never know. Turns out they went nowhere, raised by an abusive mother and a beaten-down father. But this isn't about them.

Tish is Tom's wife's niece. Privileged girl from Ireland who spends half the year in Nepal and the other half in Fairfield County, CT, selling at breathtaking prices unimpressive jewelry she brings from Nepal. Despite the disparity between the quality of the jewelry and the price she attaches to it, she cleans up because she also has a whole song-and-dance about the poor Nepalese children--the waifs she gives her life to. She's got the sympathetic suffering carved into her face, and these rich, stay-at-home women from Greenwich buy it. (You'll have to excuse me: the international adoption scene has soured me on Westerners who collect cash in the name of poor people in under-developed countries.) Buy a ring for the poor CHILDREN, won't you? They're hungry. In my view she's got herself a smooth deal: on the money she makes here, she can live like a queen in Nepal.

Tish has decided to become a mother. Not adopting one of those needy orphans she's got on her poster: she's pregnant. And registered. You name the boutique and she's got her name on a list there. My mother and I chose the most pedestrian place--Babies R Us--yesterday, and pulled the registry from the kiosk just inside the door.

$120 breast pump.
$249 jogging stroller.

"She's taking these things to Nepal?" I ask my mother. I scan the list--expensive baby clothes--ridiculous things. Why isn't she buying clothes in Nepal? I'm not spending more than $50.

For $49.50 I could buy the Sherpa Baby Bundler. No kidding. (Made in India--land of child labor. I'm just saying.)

We tossed the registry list. Bought her things we knew she'd need--things she hadn't put on the list. Registries bother me in the best of circumstances--what chutzpah--but I recognize it's something people do these days. And I had to buy her something; I had to, for Uncle Tom.

But there's no way I'm filling orders from this one.