Anyone who is cursed
with insomnia and spends night after restless night tensely trying
to fall asleep has heard all the advice: Don't eat a heavy dinner.
Avoid caffeine. No late evening exercise. Relax and unwind before
going to bed. Once tucked in, if you're not asleep within twenty
minutes, get up and go to another room. Read something boring
(maybe this essay), sip a glass of warm milk, count your blessings,
count some sheep, but don't count your money (unless your name
is Bill Gates or you've recently won the lottery). And above all,
don't turn on the TV (unless your name is Bill Gates or
you've recently won the lottery) because not only will it keep
you awake, it will keep you broke.
Think about it. The
pickings are slim at 2:00 AM; so as you channel surf, you're in
great danger of being sucked into watching a home shopping show
or a product infomercial. Bad. You're exhausted, your defenses
are down, you're vulnerable. And, unfortunately, your phone and
credit card are handy. This is a recipe for disaster. Take it
from me.
During my many sleepless
nights, I have purchased a variety of products that I'm certain
my daytime self would have resisted — in fact, would often
have ridiculed — including three food choppers. Why three
you may ask? Because No. 1 mangled instead of chopped, and No.
2 chopped adequately, but required an advanced engineering degree
to figure out how to disassemble it for cleaning. I was sure No.
3, a simple two-piece job that performed beautifully on camera,
was my dream chopper. It turned out to be a nightmare. (It suddenly
occurs to me that someone who has a "dream chopper" needs to get
a life.)
My next nocturnal disastrous
purchase was a treadmill. Bad enough to buy a treadmill without
trying it out; but worse, because of my semi-somnolent state during
the demonstrator's pitch, I did not heed three of the most dreaded
words in the English language: "Some Assembly Required." The contraption
arrived in seventeen pieces, plus a plastic bag containing 47
screws in various sizes, 21 bolts, 18 wing nuts, 55 washers, and
an illegible miniscule assembly diagram. And I still didn't have
that advanced engineering degree. It was marginally cheaper to
return the whole mess than to enroll at M.I.T.
These experiences cooled
my pre-dawn impulse buying, but only temporarily. I'm embarrassed
to disclose my other follies. I'll just say that they included
some (though, thankfully, not all) of the following:
- Diet pills guaranteed to burn off a gazillion calories.
- Torso trimmers, thigh toners, tummy tamers, tush tighteners.
- Exercise videos, including one (I swear) that simply demonstrates
walking.
- Hair growing products.
- Hair removal products.
- Wrinkle creams that promise to make Grandma Moses (even though
she's dead) look like a 20-year-old Elizabeth Taylor's air brushed
photos.
- A diamond ring the size of the one Richard once gave to the
afore-mentioned once-lovely Liz. And such a bargain! (Call now!
Only nine left!)
- A portable oven that cooks frozen foods faster than a microwave.
(Why???)
- A turbo cooker that bakes, boils, broils, braises, grills,
fries, steams and stews.
- Food processors, dehydraters, juicers.
- Amazing cleaners that will make everything in your home sparkle,
with very little help from you.
- A magnetic bracelet that miraculously abolishes all aches
and pains. (Cheaper than a trip to Lourdes, and no need to update
your passport.)
- An air purifier that annihilates pollen, animal dander and
invisible dust mites as horrifying as Godzilla (have you seen
those pictures?!) that have supposedly infested your bedding
and everything else in your home.
Where are you going to find room for all these products, you might
ask? Easy. Once you get rid of all those dust mites, you'll have
ample space.
These are just a sampling
of the offerings on late-night TV. All are extolled by an enthusiastic,
glib demonstrator in front of an audience that obviously has been
prepped to applaud wildly and "Oooh!" "Aaah!" or "Gasp!" at appropriate
intervals. And all the products are available for a limited time
at an "incredible" price always preceded by "ONLY" as in: "This
amazing gizmo/ doohickey/ thingamabob can be yours for just four
easy payments of ONLY $999 each!" Plus shipping and handling,
of course — a charge which in many cases could cover the
cost of mailing the iceberg that sank the Titanic. And if you
order within the next 30 minutes (i.e., before you wake up enough
to realize what an idiot you are), they will include an ice crusher
to reduce that iceberg to manageable chunks for your next cocktail
party.
Okay, so I may have
succumbed to some of this hype, but I'm not completely hopeless.
One unique product I passed up was a Lionel train alarm clock
consisting of a miniature town complete with trees, buildings
and people. At the preset wake-up time, the train rumbles through
the town, engines chugging, whistles whistling, and bells ringing.
I can't say I wasn't tempted. However, I had shredded all my credit
cards during a rare fit of sanity a few minutes before the ad
aired.
Now I'm afraid I had
been too impulsive. How can I get along without a credit card?
Well, I'll worry about that tomorrow. I really should turn off
the TV now and try to get some sleep. No! Wait! They're just announcing
a phone number I can call to get a new credit card that offers
an interest rate of ONLY 39%! And if I act immediately, I'll get
a free trip to Timbucktoo. All I'll have to pay for is hotel,
food, ground transportation, and sightseeing (which shouldn't
cost much — how many sights are there to see in Timbucktoo?).
And, oh yes, there is a small supplemental charge for airfare
if I actually want a seat instead of joining my carry-on in the
overhead rack. What a deal! Gotta call right away!
