The last pitch of summer

I looked at the countless stains from baby spit-up or poop and I decided I didn’t have anything to lose. I wanted my whites whiter! I wanted my brights brighter!

This past summer, the world lost a great man. To some he was revolutionary. To others, he was extraordinary. But to all of us, he was definitely the king.
Of infomercials, that is.
I am, of course, talking about the one and only Billy Mays. A longtime American direct-response advertising salesperson, Billy Mays was best recognized for promoting household products like Orange Glo and (my favorite) OxiClean. His animated sales tactics, brash voice and no-nonsense approach were all part of his charm and what made him one of the best-known and most successful info-merchants of our time. And I have the products in my laundry room to prove it.
I distinctly remember the first time I saw Billy Mays on TV. It was in the fall of 2000, and our first child was just 5 months old. At a time when my life was becoming increasingly more complicated, not to mention dirty, Mays seemed to be offering the one thing I longed for as a new mother: a cleaning solution that was quick and easy.
“Hi, Billy Mays here for OxiClean, the stain specialist,” he said, and I was hooked. I watched with a combination of curiosity and skepticism at all the wonderful things this product could do. Within a few weeks I had probably watched that infomercial no fewer than a 100 times, and each time I became a little less skeptical and a little more curious. And as I looked around at the piles of dirty laundry, at the countless stains on my clothes and furniture from baby spit-up or poop, and the general state of filth that had quickly consumed our home, I decided I didn’t have anything to lose. I wanted my whites whiter! I wanted my brights brighter! And I desperately wanted to believe that Billy Mays could help me clean up my act.
So, a phone call and $19.99 later, I had become not only the newest soon-to-be recipient (in just 28 days or less) of my very own mega-tub of OxiClean, I had also become an official infomercial junkie.
Since that time I have dedicated myself to the close study and interpretation of direct response advertising. I have had to spend countless hours watching a lot of late-night television, but believe me, the investment has been well worth it. Over the past decade I have learned that I need to “Stop the insanity,” that I can “Knock out the fat” and, most importantly, that I should “Set it…and forget it!” I often find myself scouring the aisles of Target and CVS for the latest “As seen on TV” products. For my last birthday I got a Ped Egg from both my sister and my best friend. (Do they know me, or what?) And just in case I happen to miss any of the current offerings, our three boys will make sure I am up on the latest gadgets.
A few years ago, while the boys were in another room watching television, they started frantically yelling for me. I ran into the room, afraid that something was terribly wrong, but instead was greeted by three little voices asking, “Mommy, Mommy, are you 18?” A little confused, I responded, “What? Am I 18?  No, I’m not 18.” A chorus of disappointment filled the room. “Oh well,” my oldest finally said. “You have to be 18 to buy this cool Betty Crocker cake set on TV. Sorry, Mom.” Of course, they have since realized the requirement is actually “18 or older” and have continued to make viable product suggestions on a fairly regular basis, including Debbie Meyer Green Bags, a set of National Geographic books and a hair straightener called the InStyler. “You really need this, Mom. It’s awesome,” they always insist.
Worse than that fact that I’m gullible enough to assume that most of these products are actually what their pitchmen say they are, is that I enjoy watching these infomercials for their pure entertainment value. I do sometimes dream that I will be one of those people who live to be 104, and that one day I will expel my last breath while sitting on my Bowflex Home Gym and surrounded by boxes from the Home Shopping Network.  At my funeral, the descendants of George Foreman, the Ronco guy and Suzanne Somers will offer solemn eulogies of praise. A package of Hercules Hooks will be given away to the first 100 mourners who attend the service. And on my headstone will be engraved the now-famous words of Billy Mays himself: “Life’s a pitch, and then you buy.”