A few days ago, I thumbed through the latest issue of the Uline catalog, an inch-thick treasury of industrial solutions for every imaginable warehouse scenario. It occupies a niche in the catalog market, with most of its products impervious to muddy feet, chemical waste and general abuse. I receive this hulking volume because I ordered a wooden dolly a few years ago during a move, making me a valued customer to the Wisconsin-based company.
Most catalogs land in the kitchen garbage can before they can clutter my counter. Clothing, home decor, and sports gear are among the regular offerings. Keeping the counter clean takes vigilance, because every couple days, there’s a must-have seasonal “collection” to whet my appetite for more spending. If you take the bait and buy something from any of these retailers, you’ll immediately receive the next new catalog; it’s important to keep stoking the flames of discontent, without delay.
A couple of the publications are particularly egregious offenders, measuring at least a half-inch thick and delivered rather presumptuously given their hefty size and my lack of purchase history. The worst is Restoration Hardware’s ponderous, multi-volume furniture series, which would look handsome in any library; Atlanta’s snooty quarter-inch real estate folios take second place by weight, but first in pretentious copywriting. A quick flip through any of these fat glossies promises prestige and importance on a scale not afforded by the thinner and less venerable competitors.
Here is where the humble Uline catalog stole my heart. On the surface, its utilitarian looks would appear a disadvantage; it lacks the cool elegance and haute aesthetic of its fancier print brethren. Every issue looks the same, full of heavy-duty products and bright colors that suit the tastes of OSHA inspectors and warehouse managers, not style mavens and influencers. Nonetheless, I adore these very distinctions, which imbue its pages with an unembellished, midwestern warmth that welcomes every boot and heel to its oil-absorbing and water-proof world.
Let’s start our trip through this sensible catalog at the front door. No need for the fine Persian rugs and light colors that stir feminine ire when muddy visitors breach the threshold; at Uline, you can step in straight from the chemical spill or baseball field, without so much as removing your shoes. Yes, their entry mat colors are limited, but if burgundy is too wild, you can go with black. One even resembles a fancy berber carpet; if you need something a little more refined, they offer a resort version, which is modeled with a pair of high heels on it. (Still worried about dirty feet? Try their shoe-covering booties, located on the protective clothing aisle.)
Talk of industrial supply summons ideas of spartan factory and warehouse implements like safety vests and mops; be prepared for surprises here, though, because Uline also sells comfortable furniture. So long as you like steel, plastic and polywood, you’ll be pleased with the seating selections—some are upholstered, and all repel liquids and preclude pillow-fluffing. Too bad I didn’t know this years ago when I patrolled our cushioned sectional for misplaced pillows and unreported juice-box spills. Why buy pillows anyways, since they only end up on the floor? Every parent needs to receive a Uline catalog early in the childrearing process, heading off pointless gruntwork before it steals one’s zest for life.
I love one-stop shops, and with the exception of groceries, this retailer fits the bill. You can find a Uline answer for almost every need in your home. Need storage solutions? They sell everything from 40-drawer rolling carts to forklift-ready bins. Need kitchen supplies? They’ve got food packaging containers, and there are whole sections of jugs, cups and utensils. Need cleaning supplies? This is near and dear to my heart, and apparently to Uline’s too; I’m currently eyeing their backpack commercial vacuum. For medical needs, you can outfit your own urgent care with first aid kits, eyewash stations and protective gear. Somebody threw up? Try a spill kit or a roll of “sorbent”, which promises to soak up acids, oils and other gross liquids.
Speaking of spills, kids’ shirts provide a visual history of everything they’ve consumed or pilfered (and their siblings’ misdeeds, too, with hand-me-downs). Knowing this, I had given up on removing stains and just supplied my boys with packs of white undershirts through their early childhood years. I was therefore impressed by Uline’s stain-busting approach; their disposable hazmat suits save hours otherwise wasted on stubborn pizza stains, justifying the steeper cost of throw-away convenience.
Understandably, some will be put off by the primary colors and heavy-gauge nature of Uline life. This isn’t the stuff you’re seeing on Pinterest, and your interior designer isn’t “sourcing” anything from this catalog. Nonetheless, their stylish ideas will crumble long before Uline’s sturdy product array, which promises to simplify and organize life from early childhood into retirement. Best of all, most of that life can be packed into their bulk quantities of large boxes and bags.
Among catalogues, this one is the unsung hero. In fact, I challenge anyone to beat its cradle-to-grave solutions for every corner of our tumultuous world. Their enclosed event tents could make airy playpens for babies and toddlers; they’d also make elegant garden-style dens for “unhoused” folk and agitators. Crowd control barriers can keep toddlers out of the street—or corral them when they riot on campus. With jobless activists home for the summer, who wouldn’t need a “No Marijuana” sign for the basement? (For the non-activist college kids, the “Red Hot Rush” sign could be literally perfect at the fraternity or sorority house.) Once everyone’s finally out on their own, it’s self-care time; just buy a defibrillator and slap up Uline’s two-way “AED” sign.
The more I researched this American company, the more its thick catalog made perfect sense. In a world of oversized toddlers and mayhem, we need this company’s practical and daycare-approved approaches. Unlike our embattled, Ivy League extremist compounds, Uline is a picture of order, with all employees expected to dress and behave professionally, like adults once did. In fact, the company’s dress code precludes tattoos and piercings, a standard which eliminates a large chunk of today’s protest-ready applicants and the management headaches they’re sure to bring.
At my own, less-riotous home, I’m not quite ready to ditch Persian rugs, but the Uline vacuum is on my Christmas list; a couple more clever catalogs may close the sale. Even if they don’t win my business again, they’ve still won my greatest respect; I applaud this bastion of sanity in a world of rage. Get our your bullhorns, and raise your voice for the orderly and pallet-sized life—a shipshape country for all, from sea to shining sea!
Thank you for this article. I knew I wasn’t the only one who found this periodical to a be a gem. I started receiving the Uline catalog when starting my business several years ago. Thanks to Covid and untrustworthy partners the business has since closed. But, I am still getting the Uline catalog and I wholeheartedly agree that it is the best catalog, full stop. It’s bulky, ugly, utilitarian, and filled with products that you never knew where to get, and though tailored for businesses and warehouses, products that are incredibly useful for residential needs. Preppers, the self employed, average people, just about everyone, I’m sure, could find something useful. It’s the only literature that remains and regularly refills the old “bathroom reading” basket.
Fantastic piece. So well delivered. Uline is basically the practicality catalog for us practical types. Cumbersome as it is I struggle to throw it away. It's so much more practical to have all their practical solutions right at my fingertips. And all that bright yellow plastic 😍. So visible!!