Listening to an 80’s mix at work always makes the day go by more quickly for me.

Why-y-y-y-y don’t you use it
try-y-y-y-y not to bruise it

You know what else does? Browsing the awesome Harriet Carter catalog. I love this shit. I love it so much I’m going to write it a letter.

Dear Harriet Carter Catalog,

You make my day. Even though I didn’t order you, and I don’t know how you found me, opening my mailbox and finding you waiting there brings a smile to my face.

You offer practical items, like this doggy staircase, for example

Woof!

or ones…just for fun. Like a face for my tree!

Bark!

You offer ways for me to express my unique sense of style, with class.

Squish!

And you keep me lookin’ good.

Snip!

However, there are some things I’ve been meaning to discuss with you. Lately, I’ve noticed you offering a different kind of thrill. The cheap kind. I am talking about the racier side of Harriet Carter.

The darker side.

Although they are innocuously disguised as “personal massagers,” or “instructional videos,” I know a vibrator and a porn when I see one! Nude Aerobics?! Who are you kidding?!

Harriet Carter Catalog, you’re not fooling anyone. Your lascivious offerings belie your true self: a brazenly lustful, salacious, red-lipped tart.

I look to you for pill-splitters and waistband extenders. Not lurid sex!

Yes!

Yes!

No!

No!

Please consider the turn you’ve taken in the last few years. I know this isn’t you, that you’ve been forced to degrade yourself to pander to the sex obsessed culture of today. Remember what you used to be. I know you can be redeemed.

I believe in you.