Monday, 22 April 2002 | Winterman

It used to be that I could tell who sold my name. In high school, I was briefly a member of a music club, the kind that gives you an advance of 10 CDs but obligates you to buy 15 more. To them, I was Lisa Winterman. I never lied about my name; they just got it wrong. During the first few years of college, Lisa Winterman got a lot of mail. She never bought much, though, so the campaign wasn't cost-efficient, and Lisa Winterman was left alone.

Lisa Whiteman, on the other hand, still gets lots of mail she doesn't want. She doesn't buy a lot either, but I guess since she actually exists, her name is recycled and passed around a bit more; perhaps it is written on a bathroom stall at the giant marketing headquarters in the sky. Whoever designed her profile, though, should look for other work.

In the kitchen, currently buried in a pile of glossy paper filled with unnaturally good-looking couples having lots of fun, is a catalog designed for someone who has a lot of money but doesn't know what to do with it. The catalog's main strategy seems to be to take an ordinary object, add the buyer's initials to it, and then charge three times as much for it. A monogrammed robe and slipper set for $125. Three tiny smelly pillows tied together with a ribbon for $36. A volcanic rock sachet for $65. A monogrammed silver-plated computer mouse.

The captions are nauseating: "For the woman who tends to carry the weight of the world on her shoulders, we've found the perfect contradiction."; "These days it's not just celebrities who have cameos."; "If she's going to wear your heart around your neck, shouldn't it be filled with diamonds?"; "Moms (and Miss Manners) know that a lady always has a hanky handy."

I should've done this earlier.