Henrietta Hay's Column

Pity the poor mail carrier in November and December. Our mailboxes are jammed full with bills, a few Christmas cards -- and catalogs -- dozens or hundreds of catalogs.

These modern miracles of consumerism arrive from January to January, but at this time of year they increase algebraically. My mailbox is stuffed full every day.

I don't know just what magic combination of computer lists I am on, but my annual catalog pile probably required at least two giant fir trees to produce. Since people who have lists sell them to other people who want lists, it is impossible to know just where my name is going to show up. Time magazine would be a likely suspect, but comparing notes with friends eliminates them. Vanity Fair and the Sunday Washington Post surely do not sell lists to the same companies. Of course I take Ms. Magazine, but I can't imagine Bloomingdales buying their list. I suspect that once you buy something from one of them you are doomed to get them all.

There is nothing new about catalogs. I have very fond memories of their ancestors. The Montgomery Ward and Sears Roebuck catalogs were the wish books of my generation. They were big fat volumes, full of stuff which was exciting to kids. We pored over pictures of sleds and wagons and steam engines and dolls. And also, lacking the cultural advantages of modern TV, we looked at the pictures of people in their underwear. Those two catalogs in their original format have long since disappeared but there are several re-prints of early ones. The 1902 Sears Roebuck edition is a fascinating reference book. The cover says "The cheapest supply house on earth," and it was probably true. You could buy the best bicycle in the book for $15.75 and a guitar for $2.45, while ladies' "waists" ranged from .75 to $3.00.

The descendent of these big books, the specialty catalog, is something entirely different and there are hundreds of them. They range from those put out by museums and scientific companies to those offering gadgets (that's a euphemistic word for expensive adult toys), kitchen luxuries, children's toys, and clothing. The list is almost endless. Many of them arrive monthly.

Modern catalogs are generally works of art, beautiful to look at and usually featuring top quality items. They are merchandising at its most tempting. I find them fascinating.

Eleven months of the year, however, I glance at them and toss them on a closet shelf. When the pile gets so high that I can't open the door without their falling on the floor, I have to take action. Logic would dictate that I throw about 90% of them out unopened, but I can't bring myself to do that. They are great fun to read, or at least skim. Murphy’s Catalog Laws govern them. One of the laws is, “If you see something that you want in a catalog in September, you can’t find it in December.” That is a corollary of, “Since you can't remember which catalog you saw it in, you have to go through all the ones that are left only to discover that Murphy was working all the time." There is another catalog fact that I find interesting but can't explain. Catalogs reproduce faster than rabbits. You put two of them in a pile and the next day there are six.

This time of year -- when I start to panic -- I dig into that huge pile of catalogs with all that glamorous stuff, the epitome of conspicuous consumption. Just about anything anyone might want, and lots of things you don’t are there in living color. This year I found a ragtime band organ, reminiscent of the old circus calliope for a mere $11,500.

And there is a remote control helium filled indoor flying saucer that is much cheaper, but equally scary. On a more practical note, there is an electronic pants presser for $350 and, for true luxury, a portable, one-person sauna for $1600.

Here it is twenty days before Christmas and I'm frantically hunting through the pile for something I saw last summer. Sure enough, Murphy's Law is in charge. Maybe it would be easier to pitch the whole pile and. start next year's shopping with the January catalogs.