You know it’s bad. . .
. . .when not only do I vacuum the entire house to avoid working on my WIP, but I’m reduced to using the little crevice dealie to suck up ten years’ worth of cat hair from all the nooks and crannies (which means some of that hair is from cats who have long since passed into the Great Beyond. There’s an eerie thought). Heck, I even moved the dining table to get at the places the vacuum wouldn’t fit under (it’s kind of a trestle table with these wonker, low to the ground feet, which make lovely dust-fur-and-dessicated-rice-bits traps). Amazing what the procrastinating mind will find to occupy itself when pressed.
And on a completely different subject. . .is anybody else drowning in catalogs these days? I have piles by “my” chair in the living room, here by the computer, on the floor beside my bed, on the dining table, on the penisula in the kitchen, by my desk in the husband’s studio, on my desk in the husband’s studio. I really do try to toss the ones I know I’ll never order from (uh, no, we don’t really need $400 sweaters, $80 gift packages of nuts and pears, or anything from American Girl), as well as the duplicates. But still, they multiply like Viagra-ized bunnies.
Actually, though, I like catalogs, even when I know I’m not going to buy anything. There’s a lot to be said for armchair window shopping. Anything to avoid the Mall. Which is funny, because like most red-blooded American women, I used to adore shopping — or, more accurately, The Hunt. When I lived and worked in NYC (pre-marriage, pre-kids, pre-having-to-spend-money-on-anyone-but-myself), my fave thing to do at lunch was prowl Macy’s or B. Altman’s or even Saks (when I worked there), keeping an eagle eye out for the markdowns (hey, I was clearing something like eighty-seven bucks a week, if it hadn’t've been for sales racks, I’d've been nekkid). But that was back when shopping was still a hobby, instead of a chore. Now, I walk into a department store — have sales floors always looked like something out of a hallucinigenic nightmare, or was I just more resilient then? — and immediately get palpitations. Not to mention shelf blur. After ten minutes, I’m like, nope, can’t deal with this, get me outta here.
So I love catalogs. Five minutes of flipping through the pretty pictures, and it’s over. No muss, no fuss, no shelf blur. If I see something to actually buy, it’s a thirty second trek to the nearest computer and boom, it’s done. Which of course lands me on five times more catalog lists, and hence drowning in piles of the bloody things.
But at least all the fur from Cats Past (and Present) is gone. . .
Hi Karen,
I thought I was the only one who had experienced “shelf blur!” However, therapy for my anxiety disorder took care of it, LOL!
Carol
Comment by Carol — October 29, 2005 @ 4:33 am
Apparently, shelf blur is a recognized marketing phenomenon. Or rather, an ANTI- marketing phenomenon, since a customer experience SB isn’t terribly likely to buy anything.
I just want everything to be easy. Really, is that too much to ask?
Comment by Karen Templeton — October 29, 2005 @ 7:40 am
I am completely the same way. I think dragging a small boy along with you takes the pleasure out of shopping for anyone. Never mind that the small boy is now bigger than I am, he’s no more pleasant to take along.
Comment by Mary — October 29, 2005 @ 5:18 pm
We used to do everything in our power to avoid taking small kids with us when we went shopping (God bless grandmas!). Although when we had to, we made sure they were fed and rested so we at least had a chance of coming out the other end with our sanity reasonably intact.
The youngest, though, is still a pain at eleven — and of course, he LOVES to go shopping with us, grrr.
But that’s only groceries and stuff. The mall? With kids? No freaking way!!!
Comment by Karen Templeton — October 29, 2005 @ 5:22 pm