I won the bid, and a vial of acid arrived in the mail, complete with gloves, gauze pads, cotton swabs and WARNINGS! I washed my face and applied the acid, hollering and fanning my flaming cheeks.
A few days later my skin looked 100 years old. Within five days the old hag skin began to peel and slough off, and I was never sure where a piece of cheek or nose might land.
At the monthly meeting of the Read It or Not, Here We Come book club, I noticed a part of my smile had fallen in my lap along with a section of forehead.
“Watch your plate, Jocelyn,” I said. “Seems the chin is next to go.”
In the end, the peel worked fine, and my skin looked refreshed as promised. I do not recommend this for rational people. It’s risky, and for about a week you’ll scare small children and grown-ups who’ll whisper, “Don’t go near that woman unless you want your skin to rot, too.”
A few days later I needed another fix, and I typed in my eBay password and bid on what was called “The Rolling Toaster,” a 1973 Winnebago that resembled a toaster from the 1950s. When my husband learned of this, particularly the horror that my bid was winning, he disconnected the account.
“Why in the world would you bid on a broken-down RV called a ‘Rolling Toaster’? Are you insane?”
“Probably.”
“I don’t get it? An RV?”
“I thought we might have some fun driving it across country. I thought it would be a hoot to own something called a ‘Rolling Toaster.’”
“That piece of shit wouldn’t make it five miles. Listen here. You are an unfit eBay abuser,” he said. “Who in their right mind would buy an old Winnebago that doesn’t even run?”
“The ad said it’s in great shape.”
“One sharp turn and that thing would be rolling for sure. Right off a cliff. Your eBay days are over. If you try to sign up again, I’m calling your mother.”
He’s always threatening to call my mother. I’m sick, sick, sick of that old trick. I’ve learned to call her first.
“Stu’s fixin’ to call you and tattle on me.”
“I don’t want to hear it,” she says, and hangs up.
While my eBay days were temporarily over, his addiction continued to grow. Each day more of the fix was needed and sought, chased as if it was the elixir of life.
We own a violin with bad strings, a trumpet with missing pieces, a saxophone, a piano, a host of musical replacement parts, a laptop computer and nearly anything you can name without a heartbeat.
Usually, he gets good deals and decent products. But the last straw was the evening, cold sober, he bought a car sight unseen on eBay, and I was dumb enough to go along with it since I never got my Rolling Toaster. He sat glued to the computer for three days, waiting like a buzzard for the auction to expire so he could sink his MasterCard into a used luxury SUV. We’d owned one of these models before, and it had been a great car I’d bought from an Amish family who weren’t supposed to be caught in such things.
I heard a loud whooping. “We won the bid!” he yawped.
“We always win the bid,” I said gloomily as Eeyore. “Tell me we didn’t get that car.”
“It’s nice. Look at these pictures. The guy selling it is a licensed dealer and has all positive feedback on his deals.” I looked at the car. Yes, it seemed flawless for its age, but even so, I got on the phone with the seller. “This thing, was it pulled from the junkyard and fixed up like one of those poor, unfortunate women on that show Extreme Makeover ?”
“No, it’s a Jersey car.”
“Was it in a flood, blizzard or other natural disaster?”
“No. It’s a great car. My best friend owned it.”
“Did he smoke?
Long pause. “No.”
“Did he enjoy Taco Bell or McDonald’s meals in this—”
Tidy Stu snatched the phone. Some husbands simply have to have the last word. This “nonsmoker’s” car arrived from the Jersey Shore smelling like a giant ashtray and with a dozen major parts missing and hubcaps so rusted they appeared to have been salvaged from a major fire.
I dropped to my knees when I saw the movers unloading it. I was so shocked no tears fell, no sounds could squeak from my tightened vocal cords.
I pulled myself up and surveyed the vehicle.
“Oh, my goodness, toss me in the river alive!” I said. “The antenna’s broken off, there’s no CD player in the box, the seats are ripped, the bumper’s half-torn away, the tires are balder than a Chinese Crested. And…Oh, gosh, I need a Valium IV drip! Would ya look at that? A hubcab’s gone AWOL, and a chunk of leather and fabric have been chewed out of the side door panel. Check out the paint job. Some primate’s painted the dings with Wite-Out or fingernail polish. Someone take me away!”
Just to have everything wrong righted was going to run close to $2,000.
“It’s got a great engine,” he said, lifting the hood with pride.
“Getting this car,” I said to my beloved, “was like finding out your wife has a strong heart, hence your engine comments, but has no teeth, cirrhosis of the liver, one lung and a bum gallbladder.”
This is the point at which I decided I’d have the FINAL word, a silent missive guaranteed to work much better than Zoloft or oleander and would keep me out of an orange jumpsuit or lying atop gurneys while anti-death-penalty activists chanted, “No More State-Supported Murder” and lit candles on my behalf.
This is why I decided it was time to put my husband up for sale on eBay. Drastic means call for drastic measures, as any woman married for more than five or six years will attest.
My ad read as follows:
For sale in fairly mint condition: a man who can turn mildew into sparkle, who can take a junk room and whip it into organized wonder within the day.
This prize of a guy takes two showers daily, and is great with kids and dogs, especially grooming them with unusual hairdos. He can also play the saxophone like Branford Marsalis and is not addicted to porn, but instead checkers on the Internet.
The bid starts at $50,000. Four days and six hours left on the clock. Reserve is $100,000. Free shipping in his own Lexus bought from the Jersey Shore or the junkyard.
The only problem with my eBay ad is I fear my husband will bid on himself.
If you bid right now, I’ll throw in a free set of luggage bought on eBay and in great condition if you don’t mind suitcases with broken zippers and latches that don’t shut.
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
850 Third Avenue
New York, NY 10022
Copyright © 2007 by Susan Reinhardt
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-0-758-28292-7
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Don't Sleep With a Bubba Page 35
