You Bought WHAT?

Sometimes I open up closets or drawers and see something I no longer use. Usually because it didn't work, I couldn't return it, or I just didn't have the heart to throw it away or donate it. Because it cost money and I felt bad that I wasted that money.

I don't know what I'm waiting for because it's doubtful the item is going to miraculously start working or my body is going to spontaneously revert back to a Size 2. (Is it, God? Because I'll wait if that's in my future. TIA.)

I'm convinced everyone has one or two of these purchasing disasters sitting in their home.

My main disaster is a wireless mouse. Granted, I bought it off EBay and it was very cheap, $6.25, and I should have known better. But at the time I could no longer function with a mouse CORD. Oh my God, the problems I have.

From the moment it arrived there was trouble. It came with a USB 2.0 port and it was rumored to be inside the actual mouse. I was never good at Hide and Seek but seriously, INSIDE the mouse? Do you want me to kill myself?

So I entered into an email exchange with the sellers of this item, NOT pictured below. (That one is by Logitech and looks hale and hearty and blue! Mine is a CPI, which probably stands for CAN'T POSSIBLY iWORK and is cheap, black, and made out of Chinese plastic.) Our emails were like the Hunt for Red October, wherein the USB port is the submarine and I'm Jack Ryan. The poor guy on the other end of our correspondence, if you can call begging a type of correspondence, must have thought I was born without a brain. If there's a Nobel in Patience, I nominate that guy.


Then I finally found it, set it up and it didn't work. It has never worked. So Mr. Mouse sits in a drawer making me feel bad. And yes I know no one can make you feel bad and that you do that by yourself but IT MAKES ME FEEL BAD.

What's your shopping disaster?

The First Time I Was Mistaken For A Hooker

The first time implies there were other times. There were, which is one of 10 reasons I probably should revisit therapy. My looks, makeup, and clothes don't scream hooker. At least not to me. Apparently others disagree.

I dated The Doctor for three years and was madly in love with him because he was kind of a genius, having invented a baby heart monitor among his many achievements. He raced Formula Atlantic cars in Lime Rock, Connecticut and Watkins Glen, NY and we were both enamored of the more powerful F-1 cars. So one year we flew from NY to California to catch the Long Beach Grand Prix.  The high-pitched whine those engines make when they streak in front of you raises your blood pressure and probably your cholesterol. It's very sexual. Not the cholesterol part.

The Doctor in his Formula Atlantic. The worst race I ever witnessed was when his car spun around 4 times on the track and came to a dead stop and he didn't move his head. Eventually he took off his helmet and raised a thumb's up. Later, other drivers told me he was a horrible driver and would probably die in his car. Fun guys.

Me being instructed in the pace car by The Doctor's race team:

The Grand Prix was spectacular and afterward we went to an auto show to see the new Lamborghini's, Ferrari's, and other cars I couldn't afford but he could. Everything was fine until The Doctor decided we should spend our second night in California at a friend's house. This friend of his turned out to be a very pretty girl named Dakota. She lived with her boyfriend so naturally this made The Doctor assume we should swap partners. SURE, WHO DOESN'T DO THAT WITH OUT-OF-TOWN GUESTS? He hadn't seen Dakota in many years and now that he was balding, and still short, I thought for sure she wouldn't be interested. I was wrong. He was rich and rich trumps bald and short. And her boyfriend was all in. I thought it was horrible that both he and my boyfriend would even think of lending their girlfriends like we were in a bookmobile and could be returned the next day. But as I aged, which I'm not by the way, I realized men are the real whores and are always looking for strange.

The Doctor and I got into a fight over the swapping. A big fight. A fight so huge that I called information to get the number of a local cab company and then sneaked out of the house with my purse and small overnight. I had the cab driver drop me at the Beverly Hills Hotel because it was the only hotel I'd heard of. I checked in after midnight. As the hotel clerk gave me my room key, a man came up behind me and also checked in.

I unpacked, turned on the TV, and raided the mini-bar. Mercifully I've blocked out how much I took from the mini-bar because, hello, the Beverly Hills Hotel. 

Sidebar: The next morning I called my sister Lindy, who lived in Santa Monica, and asked her to come stay with me. We ordered room service and the only thing I remember from our breakfast was that a glass of orange juice was $5.00. In 1981. I was young then and had credit cards that weren't maxed out. That's not going to last, Suzy. Stop drinking orange juice in California.

The room phone rang. No one knew where I was so I assumed it was the front desk. 

"Hello."

"Hi."

"Who's this?"

"I checked into the hotel after you."

"Oh yeah, I saw you."

"I thought you might want some company."

"What? How did you get this number?"

"I looked over your shoulder and saw your room number."

If you know anything about hotel check-ins, and having spent over 20 years on the road as a standup comic I do,  I can assure you that even the cheesiest hotel does not routinely let guests see other guests' room numbers. This is how serial killers get started and your grief stricken family ends up on Dateline NBC. I hung up on him and called the front desk.

"Did you give my room number to that asshole who checked in behind me?"

"Miss, please...I can assure you there are no people like that in this hotel."
"Well, some asshole just called me and said he checked in after me so who the hell was that?"
"I don't know miss, maybe a friend of yours?"
"I don't know any ASSHOLES." Of course this was a total lie because I was currently dating one. "I just got here and can assure you I did not give out this room number to anyone. So he probably followed me because you gave him my room number and OH MY GOD, do you think I'm a prostitute?"

"You only had a small bag...and checked in very late."

I hung up on him, too. I looked down at my clothes. Jeans and a t-shirt. You know, your basic prostitute-y outfit.