Catalogs, I Love Catalogs


Okay, I know what you’re thinking, catalogs, huh? Ever since I was little I used to read, dog-ear, highlight, fill out the order forms of catalogs in our home. Besides the sci-fi books my dad used to read, there wasn’t much in the way of reading material in our house. I used to buy books when I could, but my parents and I never frequented bookstores, at least not like I do now, I could live in Barnes & Noble.

Anyway, come of late, I visit with my Aunt Celie every Thursday night. And each week she hands over her weekly collection of catalogs she’s received since my previous visit. I sit there while she crochets, sews, or plays video Yahtzee and devour each and every catalog. Every now and then I spy something quaint and cute that I could add to my household collection, like hat hooks that look like dresses, t-shirts with funny sayings on them like: “I only have one nerve and you’re getting on it.”

My favorites are the ones with kitschy knick knacks, like a doorstopper made to look the legs and shoes of the Wicked Witch of the East, the one the house fell on, hehe. I love The Paragon, and last Christmas she got this one called Uncommon Goods, with some nifty knick knacks in it: drink glasses with little black dresses, a purse that looks like a chinese take out box with oriental material covering it, and the best was a piece of artwork, the United States made out of old license plates from each of the 50 states.

I fully intend on visiting the Uncommon Goods website,, to fill in my Christmas list.

I thought this little obsession was my own, but I found out that Brenda, my sister, has a thing for catalogs too! During a recent visit to our aunt’s home, we actually fought, a little, about who got to look at what catalog first.

Catalogs feed our superficial, materialistic urges without committment. I can let the endless amount of products dance around in my head at night while I dream of the quaint little cottage house I will someday buy or build, that will house all of my impulse purchases of knick knacks I know are useless, but cute none the less, and like my mother calls them “dust-catchers,” a designation that will inevitably lead me not to buying any of them, considering I don’t dust like I used to, not the way I did when I still lived at home.

So in all the catalogs are fantasy fulfillment and fodder for my dreams, that one day will come true.


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