Remotes Are From Mars Too

After years of conflict over the SAME issue, the Headmistress and I have forged a deal. She doesn't touch my tools. I don't touch her underwear drawer. (hey, I was fresh out, ok?)

See, she breaks something every time she picks up a tool. So in the interest of salvaging what's left of the house, we had to come to some kind of terms. We've not had the same luck regarding the various remote controls required to operate all the electronics. Once, when she used the DVD remote to hammer a 3-inch decking screw into the wall to hang a picture, I tried to classify all remote controls as tools . But I quickly discovered that coming between her and the Food Network was hazardous to my health.

One of the real issues here at the Academy is that our daughter has acquired the Headmistress's incompetence with remote controls, and even improved upon it. (competency visual aid: Imagine a number line. Imagine starting at zero and taking a left-hand turn.) She handles a remote control with all the deftness of a toddler picking up a cat by the tail. In fact, take that analogy one step further because you can actually hear the remote control's pathetic little cries for help.

I can't tell you how many times I've encountered her standing in front of a television, remote in each hand, leaning sharply to one side and thrusting them at the television as she randomly presses the buttons - like a kid intently focused on killing some video-game villain. The fact that the remotes actually control the audio/video equipment located directly behind her contributes significantly to the drama.

How many times have I been called into the kitchen to "FIX IT QUICKLY BEFORE I MISS THIS RACHAEL RAY RERUN AGAIN!" You can feel the urgency build with each step Miss Ray takes toward her refrigerator. I quickly assess the situation. The screen is monochrome purple. There is a small picture in the lower right corner with the the Telemundo channel showing on it. For some reason the Telemundo characters are speaking English, while Rachael Ray is speaking Spanish with English subtitles. The word COMPONENT1 is flashing across the top of the screen in large, neon green block letters. And some ominous-looking timer is rapidly counting down to zero, as though something will blow up if I don't act quickly. I walk over to the kitchen table with all the resignation of someone facing a firing squad. I sit down, put my head between my legs and grab my ankles.


I've tried those "Universal" remote controls. I spent an entire afternoon programming various buttons to perform macro functions that would enable eight different devices to talk to one another. It was like the U.N. of T.V.

Me: "Honey, check this out. Let's say you're watching TV and you want to switch over to DVD. Just press these two buttons at the same time, set the volume, then press this button to control the DVD menu."
Her: [blink]
Me: "Honey? Is anything wrong? Is there something in your eye?"
Her: [blink]
Me: Honey? [thinks to self: hm.. now would be a good time to tell her what really happened when Mark and I went to Vegas that time.]

I quickly discovered that the Universal Remote was designed to create a Universal Cluster@#$. It took me weeks to undo that damage. How can the simple functions on a remote control completely perplex someone who spends 18 hours a day furiously pushing buttons on her Blackberry?

I've pretty much given up at this point. Now, I simply shrug it off when I hear the familiar "Ooops.. JIM!" I just walk in, take the remote, and start hammering a 3-inch decking screw into my forehead.