Comment: When you wish the
wish books would stop already
From mid-October through Christmas Eve, some 400 slick, colorful catalogs slipped through the mail slot in my front door and thumped onto the rug below. They dazzled me with their wares: gourmet cooking apps like programmable espresso makers, electric citrus presses, indoor grills, whoopie pie mixes and mahogany drawer organizers; obscure "aids" for senior citizens like hand exercisers and lighted magnifiers and pill organizers; and an unbelievable variety of travel-related gear, such as disposable underwear, money belts, crushable Panama hats and power conversion kits.
The covers of these publications were gorgeous – adorable puppies, panoramic views of the pyramids, beautiful children frolicking in the snow, holiday tables set with candles and embroidered linens, china, crystal and silverware.
I leafed through every catalog, page by page. I didn’t want to miss stumbling across the perfect gift for a grandchild. Maybe I would find the tablecloth and napkins that would be just the right touch for Christmas Eve dinner. I paused and perused pants with expandable elastic belts in catalogs that promised I would look 10 pounds thinner and that nobody would be aware of the expandable elastic belt. I pondered the no-iron, reversable, packable, basic black designer dress – perfect for traveling, the copy promised.
I dog-eared pages with items I liked. I spent hours flipping through catalogs that, I eventually realized, were mere reshufflings of merchandise offered all year long – and last year – and 10 years ago. The stuff had just been re-positioned and put into a catalog with an alluring new cover.
I stacked all the catalogs neatly in two piles in a 14- by 21-inch crate. By New Year’s Day, they overflowed the crate and spilled out onto the floor.
I filled seven grocery bags and lugged them to the recycling bin.
These companies also have my email address. Just in case I missed the six catalogs they sent last month with last year’s merchandise reorganized, they email me news of specials and sales and close-outs and coupons and good deals. Free shipping, usually.
Enough. Stop the insanity.
On Jan. 20, I started calling the 800 number of every catalog that thunked through my door. Some of these firms are great companies that sell high quality merchandise which I occasionally buy. Never mind. I don’t want to waste time reading their catalogs. When I need something, I’ll go to the website, check what’s available. Perhaps I’ll buy it.
I started by calling Woolrich, Pendleton, Soft Surroundings, Champion, Sahalie, Norm Thompson, Plow & Hearth and The Territory Ahead.
The operators were polite, courteous, helpful. Understanding, even. One young woman thanked me for saving trees. Another asked if I’d like to stop delivery of catalogs from other companies under their umbrella. They all warned it might take a month or two for the mailings to stop.
For some, I was able to request a halt on catalogs via an automated menu: "Press 1 to be removed from our mailing list; press 2 to be added to our mailing list, press 3 to talk to a real person," and so on. Some asked to be notified by e-mail.
OK with me. Just stop.
Since Jan. 20, I have called 22 companies that regularly send me catalogs. Besides the ones I mentioned, I asked to have my name removed from lists at Ballard Designs, Aerosoles, Home Decorators Collection, Expressions. NorthStyle, Linen Source, Sundance, Title Nine, The Great Courses, Gardener’s Supply Co., Monterey Bay and Magellans.
How did I get on these lists? Maybe I don’t want to know.
I chose to remain on the mail lists of companies I actually buy things from: LL Bean, Pottery Barn, Williams-Sonoma, Land’s End, Eddie Bauer, J. Jill and two or three others.
My mail carrier’s going to love me.
