In the U.S., I got so many holiday catalogs that the mailman would not be able to fully shut the mailbox door. Beginning in late September, I could always count on being able to decompress for a few minutes by grabbing a cup of tea and a catalog from the stack I kept in a cabinet. Each one had its own personality, and offered a different kind of escape.
There were the practical and stalwart purveyors of traditional and outdoor clothing—Lands End, Eddie Bauer, and L.L. Bean--that helped me visualize a tweedy, wholesome, existence along scenic shores, upheld by sturdy shoes, wool sweaters, and good quality clothes at a reasonable price. This was the fantasy I most often bought into because it was attainable.
The cheap and modern offerings in Chadwicks of Boston and Newport News were like blind dates that were trying too hard--or maybe not trying hard enough. In any case, we didn’t have much in common, and I didn’t trust them. They often went straight to recycling, along with the Spiegel catalogs which had taken on a sleazy Jersey girl image over the years. Spiegel’s customers apparently were still wearing skintight clothes with lace panels and big hair in the 21st century.
The upscale and glamorous catalogs like Neiman Marcus, Front Porch, and Sharper Image made me wonder who bought $700 purses, $400 sweaters and all those weird electronic gizmos. These were not people I’d ever meet at a party, but I liked to scan the catalogs and imagine what the customers were like.
J.Crew and Banana Republic dumped me from their mailing lists in the early 90s. The rejection still stings. What did I do to deserve to be pissed on by the pricey preppies of the direct marketing world? I’ll never know. Maybe they thought my Eddie Bauer affair put me beneath them. Fools—I might have migrated to greener pastures if they just played their catalogs right. On the other hand, I was happy when the Victoria Secret people lost my address and quit reminding me of all that I wasn’t and never would be.
The museum catalogs from the New York Metropolitan Museum of Art, Boston Fine Arts Museum, and the Smithsonian always included an entrancing variety of jewelry, art, and decorative objects. Over the years, they’d seduced me with gorgeous desk calendars, silver jewelry, and a serving plate or two.
There were clever catalogs like Signals that almost made me whip out my Visa card, if it were not for my remarkable ability to resist most gift catalogs and witty sayings on t-shirts. Of course, I sometimes succumbed to the charms of the country catalogs, Faith Mountain Hill, Sturbridge Yankee Workshop, Plow and Hearth, and Gooseberry Patch. I do love heavy pottery, sturdy baskets, and Shaker pegboards. Let’s not talk about the flannel jumpers I used to wear ten years ago, OK? And I just want to make it very clear I never had a plaque with a pithy country saying displayed anywhere in the house, nor did I ever, ever display ceramic geese with ribbons around their necks or bunnies in calico dresses. I confess to having a few teddy bears with natty, plaid bow ties—but that was it! Really. I wasn’t a cutesy country girl.
There were always gobs of toy catalogs trying to impress with me nostalgic, educational, or unusual toys and I often placed large orders in August to cover both my kids’ birthdays and Christmas. I liked Constructive Playthings, Hearthsong, Highlights, and Back-to-Basic Toys. The Chinaberry Books catalog always succeeded in making me dial the 1-800 number and better my children’s literary lives.
The mail box would often deliver travel catalogs geared to the gray-haired, globe trotting set: Travel Smith. LL Bean Travel, and others. The monotone knit travel wardrobes were too depressing, but because E traveled so much for work, I often looked for stuff to make his life better on the road.
The cozy home and cheap chic catalogs were my all time favorites: Pottery Barn, Crate and Barrel, Garnet Hill, and Ikea. I hung onto them forever, loving to escape to the casual, comfortable but artsy world within their pages. I’d covet far more than I’d order but never ceased turning down page corners and hoping for a windfall.
I always bought into the dusty Western vibe provided by Isabella Bird, The Territory Ahead, and Sundance catalogs. When I flipped through them while sitting by the fire, I imagined myself a quietly sexy chick in denim and leather with a great pair of boots and a good story to tell. On a good day, I can still muster the illusion and indulge this fantasy. I have some items from all of these catalogs, just as I do from their first cousins in marketing, the artsy, modern hippie genre of catalogs that includes J. Jill and Coldwater Creek. These are the catalogs designed to make me feel better about wanting to wear elastic waists and loose flowing clothing to hide my pre-menopausal, pre-menstrual pot belly.
Because of, or maybe in spite of, the pot belly, I loved to linger over Title Nine and Athleta catalogs. With the right pair of yoga pants and a good sports bra, I could BE someone who never had to wear the flowy clothes.
Then there are the catalogs that make you wonder what you ever did to lead them to your door. The horrid collectible catalogs from the Franklin Mint and cheesy and sleazy ones from Spencer’s Gifts and Miles Kimballs. What about the catalogs selling only orthopedic shoes and foot care products, or God help us, the ones that sell home medical supplies? Why me? Why?
So what’s been showing up in your mailbox and which ones get you to sit down, pay attention, and start digging in your wallet? Do tell all.
November 7, 2006
Copyright 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved. www.v-grrrl.com
January 12, 2007 at 6:15 
