Oh, crap, it's a bookbag. This box behind me sure better be the Barbie Dream House.
It’s still one month until Halloween, which as you know marks the new official kick-off to the holiday season.
Yet, I’ve now received 42 catalogs telling me the holiday season is already upon us.
I’m a catalog junkie, I must confess. My coffee table is completely littered with them. I think I even have five versions of the latest from Pottery Barn. (If you must know, each of them features a cotton duvet of a different winter floral fabric. See? Not redundant.)
And thanks to those catalogs, I now believe my quality of life would dramatically improve if only I had: 1.) His & Hers monogrammed silver business card cases, 2.) a pumpkin-colored boys turtleneck in size 2T, 3.) powder blue patent leather ballet flats, 4.) a tin of nacho cheese flavored popcorn, and 5.) a brown wicker cornucopia horn for my dining room table.
Cornucopia, cornucopia, cornucopia, cornucopia. That’s really why I need that. I’ve been longing for the chance to say, “Yes, please place the bowl of mashed potatoes right there next to the cornucopia.” Oh, wow, that sounds terrific.
What I did not yet receive in the mail (and what I would’ve absolutely, positively hoped to have received by now if this were 30 years ago) is the new Wish Book catalog!
Now that right there was a catalog not to be wasted on a preschool papier-mache project. Yes, I so loved to wheelbarrow that 700-page anvil into my bedroom every year. Where I’d then spend days, perhaps weeks, pouring over, drooling on and dog-earing all the many things I wanted to beg, bargain and tantrum my way toward receiving.
Fortunately, there is a website that offers these beautiful catalog relics from the likes of JCPenny, Sears, Spiegel and Montgomery Ward (starting back at 1933) so you can peruse them page by splendid page. http://www.wishbookweb.com/
Now I’m not entirely certain that this website doesn’t somehow feed into a Nigerian scam operation — or (worse) Amazon’s online product referral engine. But my instincts say these fellas are truly just that geeked over old Wish Book catalogs.
I concur. What’s not to love here?
Okay, maybe not this:
I demand to know what this kind of crap is doing in a Wish Book. Contrary to what her husband was (not) thinking, I bet no 1983 housewife in America was wishing for one of these. (By the way, Sears wants you to know that these are “lounge gowns.” So don’t get any crazy ideas in your head that they might be housecoats or muumuus. God no!)
Also, I’m sure not lovin’ this:
Sears says this fetching sweater hoodie works best if you start with a hairstyle like the one shown above. That way, your hair won’t look much different when you pull off your hoodie, revealing . . . a gargantuan static head. (My husband would want to remind me here that I bought him a fleece version of this three years ago. And it has never seen the light of day.)
No, no, I firmly believe Wish Books should only
be about the toys
. With perhaps a few Mickey Mouse phones thrown into the mix. And a Garfield transistor radio.
Did you ever notice that the further you got into the Wish Book, the more ridiculous things got? Yes, by the end I’m talking toys that made you dizzy-headed and caused your stomach to flip around like a tilt-a-whirl. Cotton candy for the brain. I’m convinced only five to six of these toys were even manufactured. They were mostly just showroom models, not intended to actually be sold. Yes, the only people who purchased these were those stinking rich, dollar-bills-used-as-fire-tinder type of people who had bought out everything else in the Wish Book for their kids and were plumb out of ideas.
Well, you already have every Barbie doll, Barbie house, Barbie clothing item and Barbie vehicle made by Mattel since 1981. I suppose this is the year for the Barbie yacht. (Taking into account inflation, this toy would cost about $22,000 today.)
This is toy insanity! Do not tell me you had any one of these. I mean it. Do not tell me. I will go ape crazy with jealousy. (Cripes, do you think Sears would still accept my order form for the snow cone machine?)
No kid should ever own one of these. Seriously. It’s just not safe. Particularly not the clown/ventriloquist combo-doll. No, not that one! Bozo face + ventriloquist dummy eyes + Barbie hands. Are you kidding me?
Who are the people . . .
. . . buying these things . . .
. . . and why did they not adopt me?
The Mother Ship has arrived. “The Berry Happy Home” Strawberry Shortcake house.
Look no further for toy perfection. Because this is it right here, folks. I would’ve given my right leg wrapped-up pretty in a purple legwarmer for this thing.
And don’t even get me started about Raspberry Tart, Lem & Ada and the rest of the gang. I think I speak for my old Strawberry Shortcake doll when I say completion at last
My friend Lori actually purchased for herself as an adult
the Lemon Meringue doll she had always wanted as a child but never received. Talk about giving the middle finger to your unfulfilled destiny!
By the way, I whole-heartedly support rewriting your childhood. But you’ve probably gathered that by now.
And speaking of unfulfilled destiny, now (12 weeks post-Wish Book ogling) let’s take a peek back at the Link family Christmas in 1983 for the moment of truth.
Wait a second . . . this box with a rattling sound seems promising. Could it be a new Lego set? The Operation game? Mrs. Potato Head?
No . . . it’s a . . .
. . . 500-piece jigsaw puzzle of a Collie.
Aw, thanks, Aunt Lela.
Oh how I wish you could better see my expression in this photo. Because the look on my face is worth a thousand words. And the first few would be, “What am I, a geriatric shut-in?”
Please note: while you may spot a sweater hoodie or a lounge gown in there, you will never find a jigsaw puzzle in a Wish Book catalog.