Jeneration X: One Reluctant Adult's Attempt to Unarrest Her Arrested Development; Or, Why It's Never Lancaster, Jen (read more books .txt) 📖

thirteen-inch bitch division. I’m not sure if the manufacturer was trying to be funny or if the event organizer screwed up, but it is clear from the beagle’s generous undercarriage that this is no bitch and a shelf theme is born.

(Do I need to clarify the theme is “trophy” and not “transgender”?)

Six months after beginning the process, I finally collect enough pieces to fill in the empty shelves downstairs, supplementing my trophies with loads of vintage books. Of course, whenever I check out with an armload of novels, the cashier is perpetually delighted. She’s always all, “Ooh! You must be a huge reader!” and I never have the heart to tell her that I hand select each novel solely based on their red spines.

I know, I know.

I’m ashamed.

But they match the drapes!

I’ve slowly been adding pieces to the shelf in the TV room upstairs, too. Even though we’re not terribly athletic, [Like, at all.] I thought vintage sporting equipment would be a fun theme. I envision displays of tattered velvet equestrian helmets and fencing masks and those old-timey leather football helmets, kind of like a fraternity house basement circa 1940, or a T.G.I. Friday’s minus the shitty food.

Thus far, I’ve sourced a couple of vintage baseballs and some scruffy croquet balls, but that’s it. The process of unearthing these treasures has been exhausting and frustrating, particularly when I see something great but it’s cost prohibitive. [$450 for an old-timey football helmet? No.] My shelves sit white and open, leering at me.

As always, Stacey shows me the way.

“What about eBay?” she asks.

I grimace. I have such bad memories of eBay. “What about it? I hate eBay. eBay’s where I had to sell all my designer stuff back in the bad old days. Far as I’m concerned, eBay sucks. It’s nothing but a bunch of crooks in China trying to sell knock-off purses, ruining it for the rest of us by driving down the prices for those looking to unload authentic bags to keep their lights on.”

Stacey opens her laptop. “What would you like me to find?”

Really?

Do we have to go through this?

“They’re not going to have what I want.”

“Uh-huh. I’m going to search for… ‘vintage bowling trophy’ and… hey. You certainly wouldn’t be interested in this.” Stacey attempts—and fails—at keeping the smug out of her voice.

I try not to appear interested because I hate admitting Stacey’s right, even though that’s the case at least ninety-nine percent of the time and the entire basis of our friendship. “What wouldn’t I like?”

“A giant silver-handled loving cup from 1917, awarded to the men of Delta Tau Delta to commemorate their second-place finish in the Inter-fraternity Bowling League.” She turns the screen to face me.

Oh. [Were I to express myself in such a manner—which I won’t—this is where I’d say that I got ladywood.]

Welcome to eBay.

eBay is a fine place to unload your Prada bag when you’re in a desperate situation and it’s exactly what the doctor ordered when searching for a specific item, say an authentic 1965 edition of the game Mystery Date. eBay is a very, very bad place to go if you’re a hypercompetitive asshole with a penchant for spite bidding.

Try to guess which category I fall under.

It all starts innocently enough—like it does—when I spot the perfect old-timey football helmet at an attractive price. I meet the minimum bid and set a reasonable ceiling and then spend a few days watching the nonexistent auction action. But as I sleep, a bidding war breaks out between me and some douche bag named a********7, who wins my stupid helmet for a dollar more than my bid ceiling.

Unacceptable.

At the exact same time, I lose out on a vintage blue ribbon from a horse show as well as a set of leather riding calf protectors that seem like something Ronald Reagan would have worn in a film.

Revolution.

I begin to note auction endings in my calendar and instead of passively going along with the process, I become an active participant. The second the “You’ve been outbid!” e-mail arrives in my in-box, I’m on it, jacking up my bid ceiling in increments of ten dollars to flush out the lookie-loos.

Yet I still lose auctions.

I imagine elaborate sting operations wherein all the owners of vintage leather catcher’s masks band together to create an evil cabal whose sole purpose is to keep me from winning their items. Dicks.

When I spy the potential cornerstone of my collection—a small sterling trophy from the Seawanhaka Corinthian Yacht Club, recognizing Hunky, the 1907 winner of Class Dories competition, shit gets real.

The time has come for spite bidding.

I set my bid ceiling ridiculously high and systematically knock out all the competition. I have no idea who the other bidders are in real life—perhaps a relative of Hunky or a historian tasked with bringing home all the Seawanhaka trophies, but I care not. That trophy is going to sit on my empty shelf, holding a hydrangea blossom when seasonally appropriate, and that’s all there is to it. As the time on the auction runs out, it’s five… four… three… two… one…

#WINNING!!!

Once I discover a system in which I get the items I want and piss off a faceless portion of the Internet, I’m unstoppable. I win auctions left and right. Vintage hockey skates? Got ’em. Small tin sign indicating where the polo club served cocktails? All over it. Antique Indian juggling clubs? Yeah, baby. Old-timey football helmets? Enough to protect the tender melons of the entire starting line, thank you very much.

Fletch doesn’t even balk at what I spend because ultimately a first-place ribbon from the Iowa State Fair for Shorthorn Cattle costs substantially less than shoes, jewelry, purses, or anything purchased on an Ambien high. Plus, I’m working out a lot of aggression by crushing other people’s auction dreams. And, if someone out there has to sell her pair of 1952 Wilson Football cleats (with original box!) in order to cover her light bill, I’m happy to pay it forward.

Ironically, what puts