me: hey, mike, look at this listing. Gene Weingarten's selling a car for charity.
mike: Pretty sweet wheels. We definitely should bid.
me: ha! ha! ha!
two hours later....
me: okay, I bid
mike: wt? f?
me: It's fine. I mean Gene Weingarten is famous! A famous funny guy!** Surely someone will outbid this paltry sum of mine.
mike: How much did you bid on that piece of crap? Do you recall we have a kid in college?
me: He's at a state school. It's fine!
mike: Didn't you tell me that your writing income is going down rather than up?
me: Oh, it's fine. It really is a good cause. And this conversation is moot because any second now someone else will outbid me.
six days later....
the auction's going to end in an hour and fifteen minutes.
No one has outbid me and I'm freaking doomed.
Here's what I tell myself: On the plus side, there's a clock and a cool teeshirt thrown in--a teeshirt I'd never get in the usual manner because I'm not funny enough to enter the Style Invitational. (But I plan on wearing that shirt anyway and maybe wrapping the seat in duct tape and garbage bags. I might not know about short and witty but I know from crap cars.)
And hey, maybe I can somehow connect this 1991 POS Mazda to my glamorous image as a rrrromance writer. It's about half the price of a full page ad in Romantic Times. That's a fabulous deal, I remind myself.
Here's what I tell Mike: It's fine! There's still plenty of time. Someone else is going to bid. Any second.
*** I'd like to point out that this is all basically Mike's fault. He's the one who reads me Weingarten every Sunday.