guard your age like you guard your life. Never tell a man your true age. Always subtract five to seven
years at the least," she advised.
"Oh no," she said suddenly, rising to her feet.
"Desperate Lives has started. Quickly," she ordered
and marched out of the parlor.
I sat there for a moment, trying to digest the
things she had told me the way you would try to
digest food that was far too spicy. The words kept
repeating themselves.
"Come along, dear!" she shouted.
I rose and joined her in the hallway. She turned
in to the den and flipped on the television set. Then
she plopped herself into her overstuffed chair, curling
her legs under her lap, and gazed at the television
screen like a teenager about to see her teen idol. I sat
on the sofa beside her and listened to her little moans
and sighs as one handsome young man after another
paraded before us on the large television screen. But fatigue began to rise in my body like
mercury in a thermometer. I felt my eyelids getting
heavier and heavier and drifted off a few times, only
to be wakened by her shouts at the television set,
complaining about something a character said or did,
as if she thought they could actually hear her. "Doesn't that just get you infuriated," she railed, turning my way. I nodded, even though I had no idea why she was so upset. "And I hate it when they leave you hanging like that. But," she said, smiling suddenly, her mood swinging radically in the opposite direction, "as Philip says, that's how they get you to tune in night after night and how they get to sell all those products. You
look tired, dear. Perhaps you
should go to bed. I know it's late for you."
"Yes, I guess it's all finally caught up with me,"
I said, rising. "Thank you so much for everything." "Nonsense. Tomorrow, right after breakfast,
we'll go to Rodeo Drive and get you something proper
to wear. Don't," she said, raising her hand to stop any
protest, "say anything that will make me deaf. Philip