Opting Out

I was talking to my sister-in-law when my nephew burst into the room, animatedly describing the virtues of something called a Weed Weasel.

“It aerates! It cultivates! It makes room for H2O!”

I looked at her questioningly. She explained, “He spent the weekend at his grandmother’s. She let him watch TV and now we get to hear every ad he saw.”

I shuddered. If anyone doubts the insidious nature of television advertising, they need look no further than an intelligent 12 year old boy rattling off verbatim the many benefits of a garden implement.

So I didn’t feel so bad, then, about the time that I almost bought a squeegee mop. It was right after my daughter was born, and I was nursing her in front of the TV. Maybe my defenses were low from years of TV avoidance, but by the end of the 5-mintue segment showing the mop sweeping up everything from fish heads to motor oil, I knew I had to have one. And soon, since I if acted within 5 minutes, I’d also get the pet squeegee – a $29.95 value – absolutely free. My household hygiene and my dog’s grooming depended on me.

I would have ordered it, too, except my daughter was sleeping on me and if there is anything in the world that can compete with the overblown oratory of an infomercial, it’s a new mother’s instinct not to wake her baby.

It also shed light on my brother’s Rotato purchase from the As Seen On TV store. Heck, the name alone is so euphonious it almost leaps right into your hands. Once you’ve seen a demonstration of its spiral-cutting wizardry, you’re hooked. And I still secretly covet the Ronco In-The-Shell-Egg-Scrambler (no more runny whites!) from my childhood. The fact that I remember the name of a holiday season ad blitz gadget from 20 years ago but can’t – for instance – always necessarily remember to flush speaks volumes. My former mother-in-law wanted a Flowbee (it pays for itself after just a month of at-home haircuts for a family of four!) and both my mom and a family friend have purchased, independently, enough pop-lights to illuminate a runway.

Here’s the amazing part: although by now you may have your doubts, we are all intelligent, educated, financially responsible folks. Yet we still succumb to the urge to buy damn near anything that might make our lives a little neater, help us shed a few pounds, or – ironically – save a buck or too in the long run. Part of it is the appeal of convenience; part of it is the luck of living in a country so rich that we actually have “disposable” income. Next time you’re shopping, look around your grocery store and ask yourself: Do we really need dozens of varieties of air fresheners? Literally hundreds of different household cleaners? Thousands of breakfast cereals, each vying for a place next to the only slightly pulpy, not-from-concentrate, calcium fortified paper-or-plastic orange juice?

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