Have Yourself a Mail-Order Christmas

I WANT TO LIVE in Catalogueland. Night after night, glossy holiday wish books with wondrous names--such as Trifles, Victoria’s Secret, Superlatives, Hammacher Schlemmer and the Amazing Grace Elephant Co.--breed in my mailbox. Every morn ing, a new stack appears to open a magic window on a bright shiny world where snowmen never melt and sugar cookies never crumble.

Catalogueland is filled with soignee women who wear black lace body stockings and receive natural Russian Imperial sable capes on the third date, handsome men who have everything except Fishiba, a 2-gallon aquarium shaped like a television set, and brilliant but unspoiled children who are thrilled to discover a Hugg A Planet pillow under the tree on Christmas morning.

In Catalogueland, the beef-stick summer sausages (a foodstuff that I would eat only after 10 days on a lifeboat) are always freshly made with the finest natural spice. The lighter-than-air fruitcakes (5,000 calories per gram) are baked by adorable, roly-poly grandmothers who bustle around enormous cast-iron stoves in crisply starched gingham aprons. And sharp Cheddar cheese is artistically shaped into bells, stars and almond logs that have actually lived for years in my refrigerator without spoiling.

Catalogueland is a popular place. “Consumer product mail-order sales are growing 10% a year,” says Arnold Fishman, president of Marketing Logistics Inc. of Lincolnshire, Ill., a firm that publishes an annual guide to mail-order sales. He tells me that in 1987, consumers spent $43 billion on mail-order products. “The Christmas season probably accounts for 40% of that,” says Fishman, who estimates that there are between 2,000 and 3,000 Christmas catalogues out this year.

Claire, who already lives in Catalogueland, would like to receive every one of them. “I have an addiction,” my friend confesses.

“Do you know what I do?” she asks. “People invite me and my husband over to watch sports. I walk into the house, grab a pile of catalogues that I haven’t seen before and start going through them. The other night, I was into Bloomingdale’s for 10 minutes before I realized I was being rude. Finally, the wife sat down next to me and said: ‘Isn’t it great? We don’t even have to leave the living room. We can shop from here.’ ”

Shopping is always pleasant in Catalogueland. You don’t have to clutch your purse in questionable neighborhoods. You don’t have to endlessly orbit a dimly lighted carbon monoxide-filled parking garage searching for a space as the relentlessly cheerful piped-in strains of “The Little Drummer Boy” drive you slowly insane. You don’t have to stand in line for an hour in the Custom Wrap Department because an irritable salesperson wouldn’t give you a gift box. In Catalogueland, presents are lovingly wrapped with merrily striped imported paper and perky silky acetate bows.

“If something doesn’t fit, they take it back, no questions asked,” marvels my sister, Laurie, a self-described mail-order junkie. “They’re much nicer on the phone than they are in the stores.”

Laurie continues, “When I leave a dressing room, I don’t want those skinny salesgirls whispering, ‘That woman had the biggest set of hips we’ve ever seen.’ You may be a Size 10, but for all that catalogue operator knows, you’re 6 feet tall.”

Shopping in Catalogueland can be a little too convenient. “I ordered a winter coat at 3 in the morning,” says Laurie, who admits that when she’s depressed she no longer reaches for the Haagen-Dazs; she reaches for the Saks Folio. “Sometimes I wake up in a panic worried about what I ordered the night before.”

In Catalogueland, needs that you never knew you had can be satisfied toll-free, 24 hours a day, at the drop of a credit card number. Your satisfaction is unconditionally guaranteed (whoever said there are no guarantees in life was not on the L. L. Bean or Lands’ End mailing list). So what are you waiting for?

Do you need to decorate your car? No problem. Trifles can Federal Express you an artificial fir garland for your car’s grille, trimmed with twinkling lights (batteries not included) and a red plastic bow. Do you need to frame that 2,000-piece jigsaw puzzle of Neuschwanstein Castle (which you assembled in a weekend)? Bits and Pieces (The Great International Puzzle Collection) sells Instant Iron-On Puzzle Preserver or Easy Squeeze Puzzle Glue.

Perhaps there’s a risk-taking special someone on your list. How about the Neiman Marcus His or Hers, 1988 Cloud Hopper--an $18,000 one-person backpack, hot-air balloon emblazoned with an exuberant cow jumping over the moon (life insurance not included). Or if money is no object (people in Catalogueland seem to have no inhibitions about spending thousands of dollars on things like bejeweled black-capped chickadee brooches that they’ve never seen), how about surpris ing your child with a rare Connemara pony from Ireland, trained by the “world-renowned Lady Jocelyn.” “Do you want to order it or do you want to know if it’s in stock?” asks the operator at P. J. Carroll when I call for details. I ask how much the pony costs. “I have to check and see if it’s in stock,” the operator says. “What’s the item number on that?”

I suggest that she check the warehouse to see if anything is whinnying.

“Can you hold for just a minute?” she asks. Exactly a minute later, she returns and says, “That will be between $12,000 and $22,000. It has to come from Ireland, and then a breeder from here will train it for you.” Then she asks, “How many would you like?”

“Are they cheaper if I buy by the herd?” I inquire. The operator is not amused.

Maybe Catalogueland isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. After all, sweaters must be continually shaved with a Super De-Fuzzer to remove unsightly pills. Pepper mills, boxer shorts, toilet paper, even 24-karat-gold-electroplated rulers must be personalized with your initials and / or your pet’s picture.

In Catalogueland, closets must be systematically organized with cedar hangers, eight-shelf heavy-gauge vinyl sweater bags, quilted king-size garment bags and floral hatboxes. Kitchens must be stocked with Electric Pizelle Irons, hand-decorated miniature sugar cubes (with tiny harvest motifs), laundry-size vats of lemon curd, dinosaur muffin / cake molds and the cathedral steamed pudding mold.

And everyone in Catalogueland is forced to join the Bakery in Your Mailbox Every Month, the Hickory Farms Gift of the Month, the Popcorn Factory’s Snack of the Month, and the Coffee of the Month, Nut of the Month, Gourmet English Muffin of the Month and the Meat of the Month clubs.

Maybe I don’t want to live in Catalogueland.