Looks Like A Harriet Carter Christmas

For those of you who are familiar with the Harriet Carter catalog, you will be amused to hear that my mother has entered what I affectionately call the Harriet Carter Years-- the time when all of the marvelously tacky (yet useful) items peddled in the catalog not only serve a purpose, BUT also become viable Christmas presents for family members (i.e. me).

The realization came when she kidnapped me after work on Monday, begging me to come to her house to unload her groceries (begging not neccessary, of course, but she felt I needed to FEEL needed...). Afterwards, I sat down to visit for a while-- at which point, Mom grabbed a stack of catalogs (Harriet's being topmost) and said, "I've marked a 'few pages'-- tell me what you think!"

**sigh**... That's like when your dad tries on a toupee (I won't even bother adding the superlative "bad" to toupee-- its a given) and asks you, "So, whadda ya think?"

I also realized that there is no graceful way to receive the Harriet Carter book, I've determined. Its contents appeal to the young (12 & under) and the older-- kids love the quirky / naughty / cheap nature of the items, and the oldsters love those same qualities PLUS the added value of all of the "devices" geared towards people who are losing their faculties one by one. There are cheater bi-focal glasses, nose / ear hair trimmers, props to put under the legs of your couch / chair / bed to make it higher & therefore making sitting / rising easier. There is no limit to the useful items sold therein, and so I was prepared to grit my teeth and mutter "How wonderful!" at random intervals.

Thankfully, most of the pages that Mom had dog-eared were gifts targeting non-immediate family members. But hearing Mom enthuse over all of the "great" things in the catalog only served as yet another reminder that roles are being reversed-- the self same woman who, twenty years back told me, "All of the stuff in that book is GARBAGE!" is now waxing rhapsodic over the merits of Santa's face toilet-lid covers & a fiber-optic snowman who sings "Holly Jolly Christmas" when you squeeze his mittened hand.

I've resolved to be grateful for whatever remarkable miracle of plastics I DO receive-- after all, would my life truly be complete without a Days-of-the-Week sock collection? I think not.