My neighbor gets horrible catalogs all the time. I feel like it must make her feel badly about herself that such tacky companies are so fond of her. She always throws the catalogs out in the communal trash can, and I always pick them out. They’re perfect reading in the morning on the trolley, when I’m just too exhausted to concentrate on the book I’m reading.

My special favorite is Carol Wright Gifts, a catalog filled with fleece-lined eyeglass holders, fitted plastic tablecloths and “Norwegian” slippers. The health-related items don’t conjure a good image: There are compression socks for aching feet and swollen ankles, toe straighteners for hammertoes, magnetic knee braces, a walker tray, an electric callus remover, even “button extenders,” which allows you to keep pants and shirts even after you’ve gotten too fat for them.

Then there are the implications of troubling lifestyle issues: several recliner covers, numerous pet-related cleaning solutions, and enough microwave cooking equipment (including a microwave bacon cooker, pictured here) so that you’ll never need an oven or stove again. Perhaps saddest of all, a one-cup coffeemaker, in case it’s just you and the cat.

Oddly, I feel a strong affinity for the people who order from this catalog, including my late grandmother, who, I now realize, furnished her apartment entirely with Carol Wright products. I don’t have a recliner and a cat, and somehow that seems good to me, like it means I’m okay. But the truth? Most days I’d like to have both, as well as the giant terrycloth towels and the “flattering float dress.” I imagine a Carol Wright universe as happily uncomplicated. A silly fantasy, I know, but my grandmother was so happy to get a bargain on stuff like a patchwork leather luggage set, it was hard not to be jealous.