MOTHERLODE
I'd be happier if they would simply ask me
November 30, 2009
Lorraine Sommerfeld
When I was young, I was totally enamoured of three handcrafted choir boys that Mrs. Rose, a family friend, used to display every Christmas. When I was finally deemed old enough, she showed me how to make them. You took a Sears or Eaton's catalogue – the big one – and folded each page first on one angle, then again into the spine. Every single page. Then you spray painted the whole thing gold and plopped a Styrofoam ball on top for a head.
That is when I learned the best use for a phone book or catalogue.
Well, that and staring longingly at pictures of training bras I didn't need.
The new phone book was delivered with a thud on my front porch the other day. Which means there will be another one along shortly, from some other place that hoses companies for ad space to bring me another doorstop. It doesn't matter how often I tell them not to give me one, they do. If someone you live with picks up blue boxes, get out the Rub A535 now.
I don't use a phone book. It's quaint, in a tree-killing, useless kind of way. They say not everyone uses the Internet to look up names. I say anyone's whose eyes are good enough to read the print in a phone book parked his Big Wheel out front and is rummaging in the fridge for a juice box.
I used to highlight any number I looked up, figuring that if I looked it up once, chances were good I'd be hunting for it again, especially when the boys were young, and every kid had a name like Davey M.
"What does the M stand for?" I would ask.
"I dunno," would come the inevitable reply.
"Where does he live?" I would ask, as if that would narrow it down.
"We can just call Justin R. and ask him."
Ten years ago, the book would be littered with highlights. This year, I tossed a phone book out for recycling that I think I opened once.
I've told Bell – I'm not even a customer – that I don't want the book. And yet there it is. Same with Canpages and another one I never, ever open. I told Bell if they really want to be useful, they should give me back the magic lady who used to answer 411 – free – and tell me the number I was looking for. Instead, they give me 1.5 kilograms of ads featuring AAAAAA Tree Removal, not noticing the irony of how many trees have been killed to tell me who to call to kill yet one more.
Yes, I like newspapers, as well as magazines and books, but I choose those I want. Several years back, I cancelled a Sears credit card because they refused not to send me a catalogue. I can't do that with Ikea, but I wish I could.
Here's the thing, stores and services: Ask us. When we pay a bill or fill out a form, ask us if we want to receive your ginormous waste of paper. With more and more people using cellphones for communication and the Internet for research and shopping, hanging onto yesterday's methods makes me question your pretend-dedication to saving resources.
When I can vote with my dollars, I do. But if unsolicited tomes keep showing up on my doorstep, what should I do?
I don't need any choir boys.
Lorraine Sommerfeld appears Mondays in Living and Saturdays in Wheels. Reach her via her website lorraineonline.ca.
Toronto Star