Marketing has gone too far. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a marketer. My whole career has been spent trying to get people to visit places, see things and buy things. I’m a professional.

But my skills pale in the face of some 21st century marketing practices.

I’m now being told I need an outdoor kitchen.

From Restoration Hardware to the Pottery Barn, outdoor spaces (we used to call them patios) can be more than mere decks. Not only have creaky picnic tables been supplanted by teak ensembles with Mission Style armchairs, but now you can have a whole kitchen outside. With your stainless steel three-burner barbecue grill—you know, the one that could double as the space shuttle booster, an attached Corian countertop, and even an outdoor wine cooler, so you can bring your wine outside in the heat to cool it, outdoor kitchens are really taking off. Or so the catalogues say.

"Everything you would expect from a conventional kitchen can be found with our outdoor kitchens." Really? Do they have fridges filled with last week’s doggy bags and zip-loc bags of fuzzy things resembling science projects?

I was lusting after the Garden Gate catalogue, with its gorgeous outdoor tables, chairs and, get this, sideboards, when I came to my senses. I rarely use my indoor kitchen, why the hell would I need an outdoor one? To be just like my indoor kitchen, my outdoor kitchen would need a phone on direct dial to Cloud 9.

Here’s a good one—"a gazebo with woven panels, sturdy steel framing and mosquito netting creates an exquisite outdoor room, as beige fabric allow this structure to coordinate beautifully in any outdoor setting."

I thought green goes best with the outdoors, besides, wasn’t the point of eating outside to enjoy the natural environment? You want coordinated fabric? Go in the house.

I turned the page in the catalogue and saw swagged draperies, yes, draperies, "perfect to set the mood in any screened porch." Window treatments for the porch? And see, even I’m calling what used to be curtains, window treatments. And I’m not even a gay man.

How about those outdoor heaters. "Take the chill out of the evening air with the 30" Copper Fire Pit. Elegant design and durable construction create a stylishly functional backyard centerpiece." My backyard centerpiece is an oscillating sprinkler. And a can of bug repellent.

And what’s with the Media Room thing? Every new house has to have a Meeedia Room with theatre seating and a TV big enough to watch life-size football. I don’t need to see sweaty men slapping each others’ butts that big.

Besides, my whole house is a media room. The TV is in the Great Room–and by the way, that’s the place we used to call the living room, but now builders save money by not putting up an extra wall and it’s a Great Room. My computer is in the den, my music is in my ears, and I read in the bathroom. I don’t need a Meeedia Room.

And I’m not even going to discuss marketing successes like caffeinated water (drink plenty of water, then hit yourself over the head with a frying pan in order to sleep). And speaking of frying pans, now we need George Foreman indoor grills (now there’s something that DOES belong on the porch…). Then there was the salad spinner. It’s lettuce for pity’s sake, wash it off.

On the beach I see people using a moving van to come in for the day. They have to have their L.L. Bean pop up shelter, Crate & Barrel collapsible table, and Coleman industrial sized cooler. And wireless laptop. It’s the beach, people, bring a towel, a hat, and a book (preferably, mine).

But here’s the marketing plan that caught me by surprise. I opened the mail last week to find a letter to my dog Moxie from his veterinarian. It reminded him that now that he’s turned eight years old its time for him to ask his Mom or Dad to make an appointment for his Senior Wellness Examination.

I looked at the dog. Was he reeling in stunned disbelief like the day I opened my mail to find my AARP card? I’m surprised Moxie didn’t look at me and ask for Metamucil.

The Vet, by the way, is excellent, very caring and competent. But me thinks marketing has gotten the best of the practice. Senior Wellness Exam? Whatever happened to an annual Rabies shot, flea dip, and a dog biscuit? Neither Moxie nor I consider him a senior citizen, and while I’ll do anything within reason to keep him healthy, two hundred bucks for "wellness" tests makes me want to be de-wormed.

Really, this marketing thing is out of hand. All of a sudden we can’t survive without naturally holistic pet foods, bathroom faucets that look like exhibits in the Museum of Modern Art and my favorite must-have: GPS in the car.

First off, it’s dangerous. Look at the thing while driving and you’ll be the first to know exactly where you are when the garbage truck hits you. It reminds me of a depth finder in a boat, which tells you exactly how few inches of water you are in after you’ve already run aground.

Meanwhile, back in the car, GPS is a gimmick. Do you know anybody who actually uses it after the first week? The one time somebody demonstrated it for me, the car let us know that my own street didn’t exist. "Okay, my friend says, "let’s pop in the name of this restaurant we’re sitting in front of. The navigation system did a good job, telling us that the pavement that we were parked upon was actually two blocks away.

Now I’m not a complete throwback. Some marketing has won me over. Like the DVR—the digital video recorder you can order from your cable company. It’s fantastic. It should be marketed more. Unlike the Video Tape Recorder, its simple to operate, the time never blinks 12 o’clock, and I can watch The L Word any time I want.

Ditto with the cell phone and Broadband Internet Access. But give me a break from those aggressive marketing gurus who push products or services we really don’t need. Enough, already.

Though I must sheepishly admit, I’ve made the appointment for Moxie’s wellness exam. You can never be too careful. But he’s damn sure not coming home to dine on holistic kibble in our outdoor kitchen. Frankly I’d just prefer he use the outdoor bathroom.