by Judith W. Monroe

Created on: May 26, 2007

Lately I have been receiving a daily batch of catalogs that run the gamut from tasteless tsatskies to the most expensive fashions. What kind of marketing minds have set me up for this barrage? Perhaps they are gambling that I, like some other misguided shoppers out there, will succumb to their ads. Please.
Early last year I made the appropriate call which was supposed to stop all catalogs from coming to my house. It's true that I did so because I was coming down off of a particularly tiresome shopping spree. And some of what I bought did come through catalogs; however, I am not a catalog junky.

I'm mystified as to why the pesky catalogs have started arriving again. Could I have bought something and forgotten? I can't remember if I did, unless... there might have been a few pillows? At any rate my directive to eliminate mail order trash has been overridden. I feel like the sorcerer's apprentice. How do I turn off the flood?

I will have to go through the tiresome canceling procedure all over. Perhaps I should study the catalogs for clues as to.... What am I saying? I just played right into the hands of those marketing mavens-like thousands of other dupes on their mailing lists. My name may have been for sale, but I am no slave to the marketplace.

Take this first catalog. Silly stuff. Even the name. Yerkalia. What does that mean, for heaven's sake? My god, this is clothing handwoven by monks living in caves below the Mojave dessert. The poor creatures have never seen the light of day, never mind a color wheel. And someone slept in these clothes. Probably the monks. How sad they look. Oh, all right. I'll order a plain white wrinkled shirt. How could that be wrong? I can always iron it.

This next catalog, FLOW, is for animal lovers. No sentimental items picturing sweet little puppies and kittens in baskets here. I might have known that FLOW spells WOLF backwards. A wild animal lover I'm not, and this catalog doesn't make a dent in my sentiments. I can't handle the glaring and hissing coming from the pages. And what kind of person would wear a sweat shirt with a life-sized picture of an attack dog-fangs dripping? Or a jacket deploying some kind of raptor, talons extended ready to rip? I'd need a bullet proof vest to save me from the first gun-carrying citizen I met on the street. Nothing for me here.... But wait. I need a present for my wild cousin down in Dallas. He'd love the Brahma bull goring the baby lamb....

Oh, god, my resolve is weakening. Absolutely no more

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