Enough already!

By TAD BARTIMUS

STOP! Make a break for it! Crawl out from under that avalanche of paper surrounding your favorite chair and save yourself from catalog suffocation. You can do it, just pick up a pile – any pile – and throw it in the trash. NO, DON'T LOOK! Just throw! Now, don't you feel better?

This isn't just the holiday season, it's the holiday catalog season. I've pinpointed my guilt at being behind already to the day the first batch of those seductive magazines jammed up my mailbox and, faint-hearted, I took them home. Before you can say Second Day Air I was seduced by their pretty pictures of perfect rooms, perfect models, perfect food. Intellectually, I know better; subliminally I think "if I just had that $8,000 barbecue grill I could cook the perfect hotdog."

Don't go there. You'll become paralyzed by all the choices and never be able to make a decision about what gifts to give.

Instead, think about the coming of Y2K. Does your little girl really need a $75 "Elizabeth Taylor as Cleopatra™" doll ("Note the violet eyes!"), or might she be better off with bags of dried cranberries and a few long-burning candles? Can your son live without the $699 HARLEY-DAVIDSON™ battery-powered motorcycle (sorry, no gift wrap) for kids ages 3-7 years? He might really want an extra blanket or two in case the power goes off.

And what can your husband do without this Christmas? Probably the HUMDINGER electric cart with its 11-horsepower motor that claims it can tool him around the neighborhood at 25 miles per hour. Instead, invest that $21,500 (before taxes) in a solar power system so he can still cruise the Internet if the blackout comes.

And for you? Forget that $49 pine matchbook display frame some advertising copywriter claims will "form a complete masterpiece" when you fill it up; set aside thoughts of the $395 lambswool footstool shaped like a Grizzly bear; reject the temptation to order boy-and-girl stuffed reindeer dressed in evening clothes to greet your guests on New Year's Eve. Take that money to the nearest hardware store and stock up on batteries. Trust me, you'll be the envy of all your Doomsday friends.

Years ago a catalog's arrival was a rare treat, but in the show-off 1980s wish books multiplied faster than (cashmere) rabbits. Now there are more than 11,000 of the ubiquitous intruders, showcasing all of society's excesses as well as necessities. So far this season 42 pounds of them have encroached on every flat surface in our household; one pile fell over and I thought we were having an earthquake.

The National Mail Order Association says catalog sales totaled $48 billion in 1988. Now about 50 percent of the population makes a purchase by mail order every year and last year's sales skyrocketed to $357 billion. Yes, that's "b" for billion.

Why can't we throw them out without looking at them? It's complicated. Who wouldn't want to sleep on 320-count Egyptian cotton sheets? Who wouldn't want to dress up like Cinderella and go to a ball? Who wouldn't want to wake up smelling freshly-baked whole wheat in the new bread machine?

It is the imagining we're addicted to. Catalogs take us away from dirty dishes in the sink and an overflowing clothes hamper to our own private fantasy world where angel food cakes always rise, dog beds are always clean and bicycles come fully assembled. Thumbing through catalogs is a cheap thrill. But how many little pillows with cutesy sayings needlepointed by underpaid workers in Indonesia do we need?

If the Y2K hysteria has conveyed anything it's that most of us want to simplify and reprioritize, to honor what's REALLY important in our lives. Maybe we'll never plant an organic garden or throw away our 50 pair of shoes dating back to high school or even put a water-saving brick in our toilet. But surely we can do without sterling silver toothpicks and plastic alligator lawn ornaments.

Toss 'em. It's a start.

© Copyright 1998-2000 The Women Syndicate. The content on these pages is the property of The Women Syndicate and may not be used without express permission. Contact friends@tadbartimus.com