Lisa Hoffman and Charles Atkins

Published April 14, 2005

I don’t get it. Whenever I come to Lisa’s condo, new boxes have appeared. They seem to creep in through her hallway, form piles behind her bookshelves, and then stack themselves precariously next to her electric riser chair. I try not to comment, but I’m concerned that if something isn’t done, I’ll find her buried beneath the inevitable avalanche of packages from Fingerhut, Avon and the Home Shopping Network. How many Miracle Stitchers, Manicure sets, and Jars of Jasmine and Aloe Vera rejuvenating cream can one person use?

Lisa Writes:

I was lying in bed going through the channels between 11 and midnight; so many channels and nothing, just violence…and the Pope. And then I came to a station I normally wouldn’t watch, and there were two people, an attractive fortyish man in an apron—I think he used to be on a t.v. show--and a frosted-blonde woman with a British accent; they were so excited, so full of enthusiasm; I had to watch. They were shouting over each other with delight as they demonstrated something so wonderful…so fabulous that they had trouble describing it.

They giddily threw all sorts of food into a contraption—vegetables, cheese…avocados—it didn’t seem to matter. There was a lever that got switched after the lid was on tight; they made quite a point of this as they pressed down and the man shouted, "one two three!" I watched as all of the ingredients were chopped and whooshed; seconds later, voilà—a mouth-watering chicken salad! He plated it out on a bed of lettuce with home-made mayonnaise. It looked delicious, an instant lunch.

Suddenly, I envisioned myself in a fetching apron as unexpected visitors popped by. I’d reach into my fridge, pull out random leftovers, press the lever, "One, two three". My guests would ooh and ahh, as I whipped up one gourmet treat after the other.

The blonde woman interrupted my reverie as she shouted "amazing!" while tossing mixed berries, ice cubes and heavy cream into another container "one two three!" She popped the lid and there was ice cream. I was enthralled; I needed this.

And then the sell began. "If you order within the next ten minutes," the man in the apron said, "you will get the Fabulous Wonder Mixer not for the $400 you’d expect to pay in a retail store. Not for the $200 you might manage to find it Online from our closest competitor. Not even for $100. But order in the next ten minutes and you can own the Fabulous Wonder Mixer for the extraordinary…unbelievable…absurdly low price of $49.99!"

How is such a thing possible? I wondered, as visions of elegant parfaits and healthful fruit shakes danced in my head.

"But that’s not all," he continued. "If you order within the next ten minutes you’ll get not only the Fabulous Wonder Mixer—in your choice of easy installment plan—but you’ll also get four, never-need sharpening NoGinsu steak knives, one 9 inch NoGinsu carving knife, a NoGinsu meat cleaver and all with a lifetime guarantee that the blades on both the Fabulous Wonder Mixer and the complimentary NoGinsu knives will never dull! But there’s still more; if you order in the next five minutes, we’ll include—at no charge—The Fabulous Wonder Mixer Cookbook with dozens of mouth-watering recipes that you can make in a snap." And both he and the blonde woman smiled and snapped their fingers.

The more he talked, the more my willpower faded; I was mesmerized; I had to have this…and within the next five minutes; there was no time to waste. I glanced at my purse—always beside me on the pillow—and before I knew it; my Visa was in one hand and the telephone in the other; I was trembling, as I raced against time.

My call was rapidly answered by a pleasant woman, who asked for lots of personal information and how I’d like to pay. And then she whispered, "We have a very special offer right now. If you want a second Fabulous Wonder Mixer it’s only an additional $19.95…plus shipping and handling."

What could I do? How could I deprive one of my friends of such a lovely present? Maybe even Charlie. Although I suspect he’s never used the ice-cream maker that I gave him several years ago; of course I never used it either, but that’s neither here nor there.

But she wasn’t done. She also offered me a membership in a shopping club—three months for free. She told me that it could save me more than $300 a month from shopping at Wal-Mart—a place I’ve never been. But now my willpower returned. I told her "no" because when the three months were up, they’d start billing me, and based on some prior experience with a book club, I knew that canceling was not simple.

She then pitched, "how about three magazines of your choice free for the next three months?" and without stopping for breath, she rattled off the titles. Before I could think, she asked, "which ones would you like?"

I named three, but I asked her for the telephone number of the company that sends them, so I could cancel before the three months were up.

Finally, after we’d exhausted her offers, she thanked me for my purchase, and told me it would arrive in between 4-8 weeks.

"That long?" I asked.

"You could have it quicker…but it will cost extra."

By now, I was having a bit of buyer’s remorse, and decided to economize.

Afterward, lying there, I pictured Charlie, and what he’d say. "You have that perfectly good Cuisinart; you’ve never used it; it’s still in the box," he’ll accuse.

I envision myself standing up to him…actually, more like leaning on my walker, "This is different. This is the Fabulous Wonder Mixer…and besides, it’s not as though you don’t have your own shameful shopping addiction."

"I don’t know what you’re talking about," he’ll stutter, trying to pretend he’s all goodness and innocence.

But I’ll be too quick, "Where were you this morning at six a.m.?" I shall shout with finger pointing. "Answer me! J’accuse! J’accuse!"

It’s six a.m. on a Saturday morning. The sun is not fully up as I swing my Jeep into the lot, where half a dozen cars have already parked. My heart pounds, as I shut the door, not taking the time to lock it. I tread swiftly across the gravel, spilling my coffee as I pass Corey’s Hot Dog Stand and catch my first glance at the field shaded in dark and morning mist. Sometimes I come with a friend, but mostly, I am the solitary hunter, armed with a flashlight and jeweler’s loop. This is but one of my fields of dreams--the Woodbury Flea Market; I am now, and have always been a flea market fanatic. It doesn’t matter that I have a basement and attic crammed with purchases; it’s all about the hunt. I don’t like expensive antique shows or even the mammoth Brimfield flea market in Massachusetts, I like small and I like local, where the chances of coming upon something really great and really cheap are best.

I scan the field, seeing all of the regulars, the antique dealers, the other pickers, and the vendors. It’s the start of the season, and I’m searching for something particular, a vendor with no canopy, or even tables, as they spread their goods on the same blue tarp they used to gather leaves last fall. I’m looking for a strawberry--a term used to describe sellers who come to the flea market instead of holding tag sales. They often don’t know what they have, and the flea market lore is filled with Tiffany lamps purchased for a couple hundred dollars, and Baccarat vases bought for five bucks. Yes, the ethics of taking advantage of another’s ignorance are questionable, but at the flea market it’s buyer beware, and seller, know thy merchandise.

I spot a tightening frenzy of dealers that has honed in on one such seller. Because it’s early, I still have a chance and push my way through to find a rapidly dwindling collection of cookie jars in the shape of cartoon characters. I hear the seller say, "They were my mother’s; I can’t stand them, and I just want to get rid of them." I’m not especially fond of cookie jars—or of cartoon characters—but at these prices! I could sell them on Ebay. I grab a box and begin to fill it, as others do the same. I have no clue which ones are good, but I know that whatever is not snapped up in the next two minutes, will be forever gone. There’s one in the shape of a cat that I snatch for Lisa. I’m moving so fast, I don’t even check for chips and cracks, a definite risk of speed shopping. In the end I’ve snagged six vintage cookie jars; maybe I should start collecting them.

After I’ve stowed them in the Jeep, I return to the field. The frenzy at the cookie jar booth has ended, and because they’re mostly sold out, the sellers have started to pack up. As they do, I notice a box on the ground that’s never been opened.

"What’s that?" I ask, vaguely recognizing the B-list television celebrity on the cover.

"I don’t know," she say’s, "It’s something my mother bought and never used."

I pick it up…"Hmmm, the Fabulous Wonder Mixer." And knowing that Lisa’s birthday is just a few weeks away, I give them five bucks, and call it a day.

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