Catalogs now arrive by the dozens every day. I love catalogs and all that they represent. I love catalogs like I love magazines. Those who know me are aware of my love for words, know how I crave the circles and lines that organize themselves into words on the page that allow me to consume the thoughts of another – but I love pictures too.
I think it goes back to my childhood – all children love pictures that go along with or provide the inspiration for a story. I remember an early reader I had in kindergarten that substituted pictures for words that were beyond my reading level. I distinctly remember a story having a picture of a sandwich, instead of the letters s-a-n-d-w-i-c-h, and demanding my mother to reveal the letters to me.
Today I had to take my Wagenschen to SEARS to get a new battery. The original battery lasted 96,702 miles, and finally went kaput. My dear husband bought jumper cables last night so that we could jump the car this morning. (He was sweet enough to let me read the directions rather the two of us using our combined intelligence and stubbornness to get one of us killed). He followed me out to the SEARS at Six Corners on the northwest ('nortwest' if you're from there) side of Chicago to make sure I made it.
While I waited for my little car to get a transplant, I walked across Cicero to our favorite magazine store. It is heaven. Shiny covers on bound shiny pages peek out from their allotted slots. Pick a topic, pick a hobby, pick a language – this place has everything. I bought three magazines to add to my holiday catalog collection from our tiny mailbox, and today's New York Times (an anniversary present for David from which I also benefit) from the front door step.
I had discovered my little car needed a battery yesterday morning when I attempted to take our many pounds of dirty laundry to the laundromat. The guys at SEARS had to deal with the proximity of my driver seat to the steering wheel (and my Kmart seat cushion for height), as well as a duffle bag of stinky laundry for a passenger, and a nagging laundry hamper in the back seat. I still needed detergent.
There is a Walgreen's down the street from the magazine store (there seems to be one on every corner now). I went in to grab detergent. While standing in line at the register with my other package, an elderly woman in front of me turned around and surveyed me from top to bottom. She was five foot in her heels and perfect trench coat and one of those hair covers that fold up to fit neatly in your handbag, and white gloves(?!). She was picture perfect with pink lipstick and permanent curls. She had to be 75.
I regretted my quick Illini shower (brush teeth, load on deodorant, wet the hair or cover with a hat), and worried that I looked like hell. She turned back the other way and then said, "Time to do the laundry, is it?"
"Yes," I replied, "as soon as I pick up my car."
"What's wrong with your car?" she said as she finally turned around to face me.
I told her the short story and said that as soon as I got my purchases across the street and picked up the car, laundry-doing would commence. She picked up her things from the register counter and stepped aside,
"Here," she said, "you go in front of me. It sounds like you could use a good deed to turn your luck around."
I asked her if she was sure, and then thanked her and stepped ahead.
She said from behind me, "You see, not all old people are so bad."
I turned around and said, "I would never think such a thing."
"I do sometimes," she replied, "they all walk so damned slow and none of them can drive!"
I was happy to get to the laundromat (go figure) and once I got all of our clothes into three double-loaders I went through my magazines. Oh how I hate all of the inserts and different paper weights! Perhaps more damning evidence of my OCD (obsessive compulsive disorder) is my need to remove all page-altering inserts from magazines before I can read them. All floating and attached subscription cards, all full-page perfume inserts (instant headache), all of the heavier-weight designer catalog inserts that force you to flip to their navel-revealing pictures of a new winter collection (of purses). Today I was exposed to the latest in frustrating magazine advertising inserts. It reminded me of the first time I came across a cosmetic sample in a Seventeen magazine. You could pull back small labels to reveal an small smear of the latest purple metallic lipstick like some kind of Mabelline advent calendar. What fun! My InStyle magazine produced a surprise for me. This ad was particularly stiff. As I pulled on the corner of the page to rip it from the magazine's spine, a large advent calendar window popped open and a full size panty liner sprang forth.
Luckily, I have reflexes like a cat.
Words of Wisdom
Found on a sticker-laden file cabinet at the magazine store: A sticker with the image of an AK-47 surrounded by the words, "It's not guns that kill people, it's the drunken lunatics I sell them to that do." Brilliant.
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