Unwanted magazines miss the mark in taste

Dumbfounded, I gawked at the magazines the mailman had just handed me.

Half-naked women cavorted on the covers.

I leave it to you to figure out which half was covered, but I’ll give you a hint: They were wearing shoes. The kind with two straps and five-inch stiletto heels that I believe are characterized by a name not suitable for a family newspaper.

Who was liable for polluting my mailbox with this kind of periodical? Shouldn’t the post office supply a spam filter for my snail mail?

I felt myself turning red.

“These aren’t mine,” I told the mailman. “You’ve put them in the wrong mailbox.”

“Got your name and address on them,” he replied, unfazed. Sand skittering beneath his tires, he drove off.

Ohmigosh! The magazines did bear my name. Cowed, I pressed them close to my chest in case there were any children around and fled into the house.

Maxim blared across the top of one. Smut – no, wait – Stuff, said another. Obviously men’s magazines – and I don’t mean Field and Stream.

Wired, the next one, seemed better. I would glance through that one since I should try to keep up with the latest technology.

The last, Elle, was a well-known fashion magazine. How bad could it be? As a novel writer, a few details on trendy clothing might help flesh out my characters.

Still, the mystery remained. Why had these magazines showed up in my mailbox?

I hadn’t ordered them, and I knew my husband hadn’t, either. I certainly wasn’t going to pay for them. Whoever sent them would have to sue me first.

A couple of months rolled past.

“Got your new magazines,” my husband cheerily announced sometime during the first week of January. I noticed him taking surreptitious peeks. So did I.

Ohmigosh! I was almost too embarrassed to put them in the recycling bin. Wouldn’t want to overheat the fellows who sort these things, although I couldn’t help thinking some of the stuff – Get it? Stuff – would help generate more electricity as it burned.

Do they really have to use that kind of language in their articles? Does everyone talk like that? Are those the only type of subject that interest people?

I’m an unapologetic Better Homes and Gardens kind of girl myself.

Still, as a writer – more, as a free American person – I don’t believe in censorship. Different strokes for different folks, as they say.

If I don’t want my sensibilities sullied by what I consider tripe, I don’t have to read it or pay for it. I wish I didn’t have to hear it on television or in movies either, but that’s another story.

However, on deeper examination I can’t say the magazines are without value. I’ve learned all the best varieties of booze in case I take up serious drinking.

In the December issue of Wired there’s a nifty little piece on foiling the feds if they tap into my phone line – a skill that’s likely to become a necessity one of these days.

Another issue showed how mankind might be genetically improved in the future, turning us into a super species. I probably won’t need to worry about that, still. …

Remember I mentioned Elle? I believe a subscription is, in some circles, considered de rigueur by the fashion conscious, right up there with Vogue.

And so I opened the pages, all the time thinking the gal on the cover had nothing on – oops! A Freudian slip – on the gals who posed for Smut – I mean – Stuff, and Maxim. But remember, this is fashion.

So OK. I’ve gotten hardened to all that near-nudity. But still, with the magazine open in front of me, I almost collapsed on the spot.

Oh, not from shock or even the overpowering scent of all the different perfume samples scattered throughout the pages. Nope. It was from the hysterical giggling.

“You have got to see this,” I told my husband. “Do you think this dress would look good on me?”

He gave me one of those flat stares.

“Are you &*%!@ nuts?” he sneered.

Well, I asked for his opinion.

The dress I pointed at looked like a patterned pillowcase open on both ends and cinched in the middle with a drapery tieback. Or maybe a lampshade someone who’d been sampling the fine booze recommended in Maxim had lassoed and hogtied.

The girl wearing it appeared cold, as well she ought. The famous designer attire had a price tag mentioned. Get ready for this. For a mere $1,450, anyone could buy that little number.

And the shoes advertised throughout the issue! Armani, Jimmy Choo, Chanel, Miu Miu, Gucci, most priced more than my husband’s monthly retirement check.

In the end, although none of the four magazines is exactly to my taste, all are fodder for my writing research. Best of all, somebody out there apparently wants me to have them at no charge.

At first I thought they were samples, but I’ve now received five issues of each. I’ve never received a bill. Never received an inquiry as to whether I actually want to subscribe.

I have no idea who is sending them. They remind me of my online spam filter – except I have no way of hitting the delete button. Oh, well. It could be worse.

Dare I mention I’ve developed a liking for Armani?