Eleven thirty nine:
The television is still on in our front room. My mother is sitting, legs crossed, fully awake, in the easy chair identical to my father's. The women on the television drone on in overexcited voices about some new wonder product and abusing the beautiful models by putting them in oversized clothing and hideous make-up. I've notice recently that the older my mother has gotten, the more often I've caught her watching infomercials and shopping networks long after the clock hands pass midnight. Together, we used cry ourselves into hysterical laughter at the mishaps and hilarious "self improving" products; hap-hazard knife salesmen and tree stumps in a garage. A bandaged thumb. As I walk through the living space to get a glass of water from our kitchen, I pause a moment to watch a demonstration on "Literally the best eye make up ever, literally."
"Oh! This one is new, I've never seen this lady on here before."
My mother and I laugh, why on earth would she know the schedule of things to come on? The draw of the sales woman works, and I stand for a few minutes, switching the weight of my body back and forth on sore and tired legs. Each thing leads to another, each product so greatly enhanced by the next: Your lips will look flawless, but your eye liner will run. In an attempt to break the trance we both have in the television screen, I tell my mother "goodnight, I love you," and head back to my bed.
Always keep at least one thousand dollars on a credit card so that no matter where you are in the world you will be able to get a plane ticket home.