It’s all Sandra’s fault.  And Cheryl’s.  You remember them.  Sandra’s the Rooftops author who specializes in science fiction.  And Cheryl’s the one who writes fantasy.  Thanks to them, my life has become just that:  the stuff of science fiction and fantasy.  Good going, pals. 

My email buddy, Cheryl, started it.  It was her idea that she and I compete to see who could get the greatest shopping bargains.  I figured that I would win this contest pretty easily.  Over the years, I've trained myself to shop at eleven different grocery stores (yes I know that's not normal) to make sure I always got the lowest prices.  So, food shopping became my weapon of choice.  Cheryl has dedicated her entire life to renovating her four-bedroom house.  That's why she met my challenge with the hardware store.

Once we agreed on weapons, we developed an unbelievably complicated mathematical formula for comparing the amount saved in grocery shopping versus the amount saved in hardware purchases.  Calculated into that formula is the amount of time required to shop, the amount of gasoline required to fund the trip, the amount of effort required to hammer a nail in versus mashing a potato....  You get the idea.  In a nutshell, we're just two women who have no lives.

Surprisingly, Cheryl and I stayed neck and neck for weeks.  Then one day she made a mega boo boo.  I could believe it.  She emailed me that she had purchased a nail.  A single nail for (hang onto your seats) fifty dollars.  And then she had the nerve to call that a bargain!

Well, you can picture the great big smile on my face as I emailed her.  "Give it up!"  I decreed.  "No nail in the world is worth fifty dollars!"

"HA!" she wrote in the subject line of her reply.  "This isn't any ordinary nail," she continued in the email itself.  "This nail once went into a heel that was once attached to a boot that was once worn by George Harrison (maybe) for the Shea Stadium concert (I think).  This nail comes with a certificate of authenticity verifying that indeed, this might have been the nail that once went into a heel that was once attached to a boot…., etc., etc."

Wow.  "Okay Cheryl," I conceded.  "Looks like you're a shoe-in to win this contest."

Cheryl emailed me a reply that looked like this:  L  

"What’sa matter, Cheryl?  Don't you like my shoe-per pun?"

Two minutes later, she's emailing me again.  "Got another bargain," she told me.  "It isn't hardware, but it is the deal of the century:  552 copies of the single Band on the Run.” 

552 copies of Band on the Run?  Even I’m not that nutso.  I’ve only got 4 copies.  My turn to "HA" her in the email subject line.  “What’s the deal?  Are you switching allegiances to Paulie?  If so, can I have all your George stuff?”

“TYPO!!!!!!” her subject line screamed.  “The single is called Bland on the Run.” 

"Yeah, yeah, yeah.  You got me again, Cheryl.  A typo is a worthy collectible.  But 552 copies?  What did you do that for?"

 “Because they’re unique.”

Right.  552 unique copies.  One of us needs professional help.  Problem is, I don’t know which one.  Naturally, I’d like to think it’s Cheryl.  On the other hand…. I don’t like to think about the other hand.  But seriously.  Is there something wrong with me because I think there’s something wrong with her for buying 552 copies of the same single?  Shouldn’t I be feeling jealousy and remorse and rage because I missed out on what might possibly be the ultimate Beatle collectible? 

Come to think of it, who wants to spend three weeks of paychecks on a bunch of Beatle stuff that’s just going to clutter up your house?  Beatle stuff you’ll never sell or never look at again because you’re just going to bury it under other Beatle stuff. 

Still.  I have to admit that I’m feeling some jealousy over that nail in the heel thing.  Here goes another email from me to you.  “Hey Cheryl, does that store have any more George nails?  I’d settle for an authenticated shoelace.  Or an eyelet.  Or how about this?  How about George’s very SOLE?”

Blech.  She ignored my question.  And she rubbed another purchase in my face:  A pebble that George HIMSELF removed from HIS tire from the car that HE parked HIMSELF at some pub in Henley (actual pub name withheld for purposes of maintaining George’s privacy, the pub’s privacy, and the original pebble retriever’s privacy).  And yes, all that came with an authenticating certificate.

“Okay Cheryl, spill.  What store is supplying you with all the Beatle stuff?  Do they have a web site?  Can I get a catalogue?  I’m drooling on my keyboard and it isn’t pretty.”

Five minutes later, she sends me a reply.  “Cool!  Guess what I just bought?  A plate from a restaurant in New York where George was once spotted looking at the menu posted in the window.  Whoo hoo!”

Okay, now I’m irritated.  How is she doing this?  “Cheryl,” I typed, “I thought you went to work today.  How do you have time for all this shopping?”

“I am at work,” she emailed in return.

ARGH!  What’s her secret? 

She wouldn't tell me, and I couldn’t take it anymore.  So, I emailed my buddy, Sandra.  “Who is Cheryl’s supplier?”

Boy did I feel dumb.  I only design web sites for a living.  I only surf the web every other minute because I need stuff for work.  It never occurred to me to check out the online auction sites.

“Go for it!” Sandra urged me.

“I’m scared,” I wailed as best as I could online.  “I’m scared I’ll spend too much money.”

“You don’t have to spend a lot of money,” Sandra goaded me.  “Look, I’ll help you find your first online item.”  The next thing I know, Sandra emails me this link that goes on and on for about four pages. 

“Hey Sandra, why should I click on that link?  It looks icky.”

Sandra made a big smiley face, like this  ;-).  “This link will take you to the only Beatle item on the site that hasn’t gotten any bids yet.”

“Yeah?  What’s wrong with it?  Why aren’t you bidding on it?”

“Well, because bidding starts at twenty-five cents.  Everybody knows that when bidding starts that low, the item is definitely used and probably broken.  It will be a good first purchase for you.”

Fine, fine, fine.  I bowed under pressure and clicked the ridiculous link.  Next thing I know, I’m looking at this product description:

For sale:  1 Beatle.  Used.  In fair condition.  I think it’s Ringo.  Price of shipping:  Depends on where you live.  I promise to make it as cheap as possible.

Well, for twenty-five cents, how can you go wrong?  So I put in my bid.  Decided to be a sport and said I’d pay up to five dollars for the Ringo thing.  That’s pretty big of me, you know, since George is my favorite.  But like Sandra suggested, I'll use this as a learning experience.

I learned:

Congratulations!  You win the used Beatle item.  Your high bid:  Twenty-five cents.  Your shipping price.  One hundred and thirty dollars.  Total comes to one hundred thirty dollars and twenty-five cents. 

Ahhhhh!  Is this legal?  What kind of twenty-five cent item costs a hundred and thirty bucks to ship?  Immediately, I emailed Cheryl and Sandra.  Both had the same response:

“You DUMMY!”

Thanks gals.  So, I emailed the auction site.  Here’s their reply: 

You DUMMY!  Always email the seller BEFORE you bid if shipping price isn’t listed.  You’re stuck with it.  Pay up, or the vendor can take you to court.  Enjoy your new purchase.

I considered going to a lawyer, but the initial visit alone would probably cost more than the shipping price.  So, I bit the bullet and swore never to make another online purchase again.  Then I mailed out my check.

Ten days later, I received this email:

Thank you for bidding on the used Beatle.  Your payment has been received.  Your purchase will arrive a week from Thursday at high noon.  You must be home to receive delivery.  Cost of the cab fare from the airport is approximately $23.00.  Enjoy Ringo!

Another $23.00?  And I have to take a day off work so I can receive my new purchase?  You can believe that the emails flew fast and furious between Cheryl, Sandra, and me.  This time, they used words that were even stronger than “DUMMY.”

I tried to make them accept the blame for this.  After all, Cheryl started it by making me feel inadequate as a Beatle collector.  And Sandra’s the one who told me where to buy the stuff.  Not to mention that it was Sandra's idea to purchase the used Beatle.  Whatever that is.  Neither of my friends had a clue, and the vendor isn't answering my emails!

Of course, my friends blamed me for all this.  They claimed it was my fault for not emailing the vendor first and getting the important details.  Never mind that I had never made an online auction purchase before and didn’t know the ins and outs of it.

I’ll tell ya, this business really put a strain on our friendship. 

The day before the used Beatle arrival, I received a new email:

Congratulations once again on your used Beatle purchase!  The attached document will explain how to feed and care for your new purchase.  Please print out these instructions and don’t lose them!

Feed and care for it?  My head started reeling.  What in the universe did I buy?  A cat?  A canary?  A wolverine?  Well, what the hey.  I started up my printer and left the room.  Thirty minutes later, the poor machine was still spitting out paper.  I started reading. 

A hundred and seven dollars later, I finished my grocery shopping.  Well, I needed most of the recommended items anyway.  Besides, it kept me from hopping on a plane and doing harm to either Cheryl or Sandra.  Grand total so far:  Two hundred thirty seven dollars and twenty five cents.  Plus whatever cab fare came out to.  And still no clue what the Ringo whatsit was.

Finally, Thursday noon arrived.  So did the taxicab.  I didn’t say a word.  Just threw the money at the driver, opened the back door, reached in, and grabbed hold of whatever it was.  Pulled it out of the cab and slammed the door.  

Newsflash, everybody.  It wasn’t a cat. 

It wasn’t a canary.

And best of all, it wasn’t a wolverine.

In fact, the item I received was indeed, exactly what was described on the auction site:  One used Beatle.  Answers to the name of Ringo. 

“Well, are you just gonna stare at me all day long, or are you gonna invite me in for lunch?  I’m quite hungry, you know.  You can’t imagine the rubbish they serve on those no frills flights.  Broke a tooth on the toast, I’m certain of it.  I hope you’ve got dental insurance.”

You know me, a fount of wit and wisdom.  I looked Ringo right in the eye and said, “Ahhwhweroasjweierwj?”

He sighed.  “Look, I don’t mean to complain or anything.  But if you’re going to fawn, couldn’t you do it over egg and chips?

“Not on the grocery list,” I explained.

If that made any sense to him, he didn’t show it.  “Look, I’m starving.  I’ll eat whatever you’ve got.”

So, I took Ringo into my kitchen and let him rummage around.  Big mistake.

“I just spent a hundred and seven dollars on brand new food and you have to eat my eggplant parm leftovers!”

He shrugged and kept right on munching. 

“How did you end up for sale, anyway?”

He shrugged again.

“Doesn’t your family mind?”

To be fair, he did give me a lengthy answer.  But between the legalese, and the eggplant, I couldn’t make out more than “contractual obligation.”

It occurred to me that maybe I ought to notify my pals, Cheryl and Sandra, to let them know that Ringo was now rooting through my freezer and complaining about my choice of ice cream.

It also occurred to me that I would have a very hard time convincing my two pals that the world's most famous drummer was now breathing eggplant and banana ice cream down my neck.  But I booted up the computer anyway, and I started composing my email.

“Hey miss, do you mind logging onto the auction site?”

I whipped around in my seat.  The world's most famous drummer fell to the ground, along with 10,000 or so M & Ms.  So glad I chose a white carpet.  "Don't move!"  I ordered him.  I just had these awful visions of him crushing M & M's into my carpet.

Not to worry.  I did the crushing myself as I tried to clean up his mess.

"Never mind that," he consoled me.  "We've got a job to do."

He stood up and walked over to the computer.  Didn't step on one M.

"What are you doing?"  I asked as he pounded the keyboard.

“Well, I promised my buddy that I would try and win him, too.”

I started shaking.  “What buddy?”

“Here.”  Ringo typed a few more commands and a new screen appeared.

For sale.  One used Beatle.  Condition:  Depends on the appraiser.  I’ve heard everything from “gorgeous” to “gonzo.”  I recommend you form your own opinion.  If you use the Buy-It-Now option, I’ll throw in his high maintenance friend.

Before I could decide what to do, Ringo grabbed the mouse and bought the two Beatles.

I started making this awful choking sound.  Ringo ignored it.

“I should warn you.  Paul is a pill.  “He's gonna fuss about the tofu that’s sitting in your fridge.  Wrong texture.  And he’ll want a different brand of toothpaste.  You may as well remove all your pictures.  He'll be hanging Linda's photographs on your walls.  And that sorry excuse of a piano?  Here, let me put that up for auction right now.”

"But..."

"Paul will bring his own, I guarantee it.  In fact," Ringo looked around the room.  "He'll probably want sound proofing in here.  And a mixing board."

"Please don't tell me any more about Paul."

"In that case I better warn you about George."

"I thought he was easy-going."

"Is that car out front yours?"

I nodded.

"George would never drive a thing like that.  You want me to put that up for auction too, or should we do a trade in?"

"Trade in," I uttered automatically.  What was I saying?

Congratulations.  You are the high bidder for the two used Beatles.  Beatles will arrive Wednesday morning at five o'clock, just like the song says.  The combined airfare from both England and Switzerland is three thousand two hundred dollars.  Limo from the airport is approximately four hundred dollars.  Enjoy your purchases. 

"Three thousand six hundred dollars," I muttered.

"Is that a problem?"  Ringo asked.

A problem?  Let's see.  I whipped out my calculator, a pen, and some paper and did the fanciest set of calculations you've ever seen.  "Adding in the loss of the M & Ms, the cost of a new carpet, the airfare, another day off work..."

"Do you mind my asking what you're doing?"

"HA!"  I screamed.  Elbowing Ringo off the chair, I accessed my mail program.  Sent a letter to Cheryl, and a copy to Sandra.

"According to my calculations, the cost of my three latest purchases is a bigger bargain than the cost of the famous nail, the 552 records, and the plate.   I WIN!!!!!!!"

In the rest of the email, I detailed everything from my twenty-five cent purchase to the anticipated arrival of George and Paul.

Two minutes later, Cheryl sent me this:  "Don't go strutting your stuff just yet.  I just bought Apple."

Seconds after Cheryl's message arrived, I received this email from Sandra.  "George Martin gets here tomorrow.  In a yellow submarine."

AHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!

Ringo patted my shoulder.  "Don't cry, luv."  He bent down and whispered in my ear.  "I can get you Billy Preston."

I shook my head.  "Cheryl will still beat me.  And that will only tie me with Sandra."

"Peter Frampton?  Ian Hunter?"

I continued shaking my head.

"Wayne Newton?  N'Sync?"

I did some more calculations.  "Eric Clapton, Mick Jagger, and Julia Child."

The world's greatest drummer didn't miss a beat.  "Trade you Yoko for Julia."

"Done."

Lisha Goldberg is a Technical Writer/Website Developer for a Massachusetts-based insurance company. She also writes a newsletter for a Boston piano studio. Lisha has won several prizes for her writing, including the Boston Herald Star Trek Competition (write a eulogy for Captain Kirk!), CompuServe's Beatle Essay Contest, and Writers Digest Magazine Award for best Inspirational Short Story.