As we move through marriage and parenthood, it becomes increasingly apparent that some items in our house “belong” to specific people. Usually this is decided by who uses said item the most. Based on this formula, I am the lucky owner of the oven, cook top, vacuum cleaner, washer, dryer, and hand mixer. I didn’t choose these items, I won them by default. If I didn’t take them over, they would sit around collecting dust, and eventually fall apart. My sons own the video games, air hockey table, foosball table, lap tops, I-pods, and flashlights. (I believe the latter plays an important role in man-hunt.) My dear spouse has only one cherished possession, the TV remote. It wasn’t always that way.
A few years before I met my future husband, I squirreled away some money and bought myself a colored TV. Prior to this watershed moment, I had been enjoying my 10 inch black and white model. You remember the kind I am talking about, no remote, and a circular dial, where you clicked around the 7 or 8 channels that were available. At night, I would check the newspaper TV listings, and plan my night’s entertainment. I might have to get up once or twice to change the channels, but since my apartment was the size of walk in closet, this presented no overwhelming challenge. Well this new beauty, all 19 inches and 2 tons of it was wonderful! I was living the high life. TVs still didn’t come with remotes back then, but the living color was astounding! I reviewed my budget and decided I could afford cable TV as well. I had arrived. Upon hook-up, I was presented with a remote the size of a lap top, which was attached to the TV by wires that snaked across my living room to the couch. Although convenient, I still only changed the channel once or twice an evening. Sadly it did cut out my only daily exercise.
Shortly after I became “wired” I met my future mate. When he came over, I would cradle the remote in my lap, and politely ask if he had any preferences to shows that evening. He would politely give me his suggestions, and being the good hostess, I would turn them on. I now realize we were in the “I’m going to fake you out” period of courtship. I no more wanted to watch the NCAA basketball tournaments, than he wanted me to control the remote. One fateful evening I handed him the remote, and said sweetly, “why don’t you choose?” That was the last night that I have controlled the TV remote.
My man took to it like a fat kid to cake! He was clicking those buttons so fast my TV screen resembled a disco ball. Commercials became a distant memory, for they would be clicked away in a nano second. I marveled at his ability to know he didn’t want to watch a show, after one brief flash. As our relationship progressed, he could be found stretched out on the couch, with the remote lovingly perched on his chest. To be honest, I think my ownership of a remote, tipped the balance in my favor, when he was contemplating marriage. (I know it wasn’t my cooking.)
We married. Me to him, and him to me and my remote.
Shortly after our marriage, we bought our first home. One of our first purchases was a new TV and VCR set. Technology had advanced to the point, which all TVs and VCRs came with wireless remotes. No more tripping over wires in our new abode. I discovered that we now had 2 remotes! We each had our own. Oh happy day, it was time for me to get back in the game. Sadly I had underestimated how agile my beloved had gotten with the remote. I would flip to a channel, and before I knew what hit me, he was clicking away to beat the band. He played that thing like Itzhak Perlman on the violin. I would have to up my game, or cheat. I chose cheating. One evening, before he arrived home from work, I removed the batteries from his remote. I knew which remote was his, as it had sustained a sizable crack when it flew from his hands during a particularly tough Giants game. One of those games, when no matter how loud he yelled at the TV, Phil Simms just wasn’t taking his pointers. His remote was draped in a swathe of duct tape; it was the perfect solution to the problem.
But I digress. Later that evening we sat down to watch a little TV. I merrily changed channels, watched all the commercials, and basically had a good old time. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed himself furiously punching the buttons on his remote. He even got up from the couch to try and get closer to the sensor for the remote, to no avail. If they ever needed a picture of frustration for the dictionary, he was your man. Eventually he figured out the problem, and surmised who the culprit was. He replaced the batteries, shooting dirty looks at me for the remainder of the evening.
That Christmas he bought a new TV, which he said, was for me. I never asked for a TV, and certainly didn’t fancy one for our bedroom. He promised me, that this TV was strictly under my domain. I would have complete and utter ownership of the remote. True to his word, he didn’t grab the remote when he came to bed at night. This lasted about one month. Slowly but surely, I noticed when he thought I had fallen asleep, the channel would change. And change, and change. Many mornings I would wake to find him fast asleep with the remote grasped tightly in his fist. He tried, but I think his DNA is wired to remote dominance.
As I have mentioned in the past I am mother to three boys. I am seeing first hand that this is a trait passed down from father to son. The hierarchy is age based. If my husband is not home, remote “control” passes to the next oldest male in residence. They too have inherited his agility and finesse on the channel buttons. No commercials or soap operas are in evidence. I am so proud.
I have a word of advice, for any young ladies contemplating their future as my daughter in-law. Hand over the remote, and half the battle is won!
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