God Rest Ye Merry Catalogs

As if I don’t have enough to feel guilty about, my mailbox is jammed with pre-Christmas catalogs from companies with exotic names and equally exotic prices.

Okay, I just overheard my daughter Sarah (my 23-year-old with Down’s Syndrome) making a phone call, and I absolutely must share it! She works at the Calcasieu Association for Retarded Citizens, and their Christmas party is tomorrow night. The paper said that RSVPs had to be before then. Already you can tell my level of efficiency.

Anyway, I showed her the number and said, “Okay, there you go. Call.” !s23404755_33480555_6282.jpg

As I was composing my blog entry for today, this is what I hear:

“Hello, this is Sarah (she also gave her last name and the city we live in, but my oldest daughter would K-I-L-L me if I exposed this; she’s sure I’ll be an identity theft victim; I keep telling her they may be me for a little while, then they’ll be begging me to take me back). Sarah then said, “I have a paper here about a client Christmas Party tomorrow night. I think I am going to this, and I wanted you to know.”

Wow. I would have cried, but I was afraid I’d ruin my keyboard, and I can’t do that because I still have to finish my novels. It was a truly spectacular moment.


So–back to the catalogs. Their art work is beautiful; they obviously cost more than it would cost to buy one of each item they picture, and I just can’t bring myself to toss them into the garbage with the mushy coffee grind, half-eaten carrot, and other substances I’d need the forensic team from CSI to identify.

Maybe I can save them for Emma (granddaughter). She could shred them for me. Kids love to do that. And I’m sure her parents would love it too. Payback’s rough, honey.


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