You may remember I placed a bid in Gwyneth Paltrow’s auction. 

Well, let’s back up a bit. 

Perusing the auction house website made it apparent several items were within my price point. 

But there was just one item I thought I might bid on. 

Well, it was two items, but they were bundled into one lot. 

For an opening bid of $75, I could own a black, blue, and white plaid shirt and a black blazer. Both are Gwyneth Paltrow’s own clothing label, and both were worn by Gwyneth. 

“Your birthday is coming,” my husband said. After querying me on my intended, hypothetical, final bid, he offered to spring for half. 

Wow. Gwyneth Paltrow’s clothes and Robocop? 

Ooh! What if I watched Robocop while wearing Gwyneth Paltrow’s clothes? OK. Let’s put a pin in that. 

Creating an account on the auction’s website wouldn’t really hurt anyone. I entered my information and favorited the shirt and blazer, leaving a window to the auction house open on my laptop browser. 

For days, I’d toggle over to the auction house website. I’d look at that shirt, that blazer. My shirt. My blazer. 

It’s how I’d begun to think of them. 

I own goop products — again, yes, small “g.” Of course I do. But they’re beauty products I eventually use up. Like “The Martini Emotional Detox Bath Soak,” which I use as an exfoliant because baths are gross.  

When Indy was dying, I’d run a hot shower before bed, scrub myself with The Martini, pour a glass of wine because martinis are also gross. 

Not as gross as baths, but then few things are. 

The Martini saved my sanity during those dark days.  

With each workout, I drink something called goopglow Morning Skin Superpowder. I don’t know what’s in it and, like the wood pile at the cabin, I don’t want to know. It’s orange like Tang and Gwyneth drinks it, so that’s all anybody really needs to know. 

“I get the goop newsletter in my email,” my father-in-law said, after he bought me a goop gift card. He is the progenitor of the cabin wood pile and says your booze should have just two ingredients. 

And ice is an ingredient. 

The idea of him reading newsletters about friendship divorce and microcurrent body sculptor ritual sets kind of tickled me. 

So I took a quiz for him, to see how goopy he is. 

For reference, I’m “a natural gooper.” My “energy is balanced” and my “priorities are in order.” In fact, according to the quiz, I am “probably Gwyneth.” 

To quote Wayne and Garth, shaa. 

I don’t know how to spell that sound they make when they’re flattered.  

But I’ll bet Gwyneth does. 

My father-in-law scored quite low.  

In all fairness, his results may be skewed; I refused to answer the question about spicing things up in the bedroom.  

But my father-in-law’s quiz results suggest he’s in imminent danger of incarceration due to his lack of goopyness. 

He should probably hire Gwyneth’s lawyer. 

In short order, I was reading the auction house’s instructions on placing a bid. 

So, yeah. I set a budget for myself and tuned into the auction. 

The auction was live, streamed online through the auction house website. My item was number 124 of 500. Each item spent about a minute in active bidding, so I had roughly two hours of waiting and watching.

Bids could be placed live personally or through a tertiary firm. They could also be placed live online. Bidders could also log their highest bid in advance if they were unable to attend live or in person. 

I, of course, was bidding online. 

I monitored the prices items sold for, in relation to their estimated value. Some went for less. Some more. Some right on target. 

Later, I’d tell my husband about the more astronomical items, like the Oscar gown that sold for thousands of dollars. 

“Babe,” my husband said, “I need to know you didn’t bid on the Oscar gown.” 

I didn’t bid on the Oscar gown. 

But I did decide I’d have to practice. Practice bidding. A toggle switch at the bottom of the auction screen prevented a bidder from accidentally buying an Oscar gown. I turned it on, just to see what happened. 

“Seriously, hon,” my husband said. “You didn’t buy the Oscar gown, right?” 

I didn’t. I really, really didn’t. 

Toggling the switch to “on” activated the bidding button. I hovered my cursor over it. Automatically, the next bid amount popped into the bid button. A simple click and that Oscar gown was mine. 

Kidding, babe. Kidding. I can’t buy an Oscar gown when Robocop costs $2.99 on Amazon and I had to replace my copy of The Hobbit. Are we Rockefellers? 

I mean, the goopy quiz says I’m Gwyneth, but exactly zero questions on that quiz inquired after my net worth. 

When my item hit the auction block, I was ready. The bid was at $150. 

I bid the next amount, $200. 

And I won. 

How goopy am I now? 

Later, I showed my son a picture of my plaid shirt, my blazer. 

“You spent $200 on those?!” my son said.  

I explained the clothes were Gwyneth’s own label, made in Italy, worth so much more than $200. 

“You already own them! You have clothes that look just like that!” he replied. 

Which is true. But still. They’re different. 

Within days, I had an invoice for $200, with an extra $50 in what the auction house called “additional charges.” 

OK. That’s fine. Fine. 

Then I had an invoice for shipping. I had multiple shipping tiers to choose from. 

The top tier of shipping was $2,500.

Huh. 

Maybe it comes wrapped in an Oscar gown.