REMOTE CONTROLLED FRUSTRATION

Click here to return to the main menu.

“You know, it doesn’t matter whose fault it was. What matters is that the problem is solved.”

Man, if those aren’t the words of a man backtracking, I don’t know what is.

It all started a few weeks ago when I sat down in my recliner for a relaxing evening of television. I reached to my left to take control of my remote. The remote lives on the arm of my recliner. It waits for me there. It is a good remote.

But this time, it was different. I reached to find nothing but empty space. A big, heaping pile of remoteless space.

Now, it has come a bit of a cliché regarding remotes, with people roaming the house in search of a remote, all the while they could hoist their ever-expanding rears from the chair to change the channel.

But this is different. Very different. For one thing, it’s me, and thus holds far more seriousness in my world.

Secondly, this was not just any old remote. This was the remote I used to program my VCR to record programs. It is the only way I can be assured that “Live with Regis and Kelly” will be tap…I’ve said too much. Let’s move on.

So upon the realization that my remote was gone, I started off in search of it. I checked under cushions, behind couches, on shelves. I looked everywhere a remote control would have leapt to, but came up empty.

It was at that point I had enough evidence to present my rock-solid case. “Well, either you or Allie misplaced it,” I told me wife. I had two theories, each as plausible as the other:

THEORY ONE: My wife had been using the remote, when our daughter Allie did something to attract her into another room (“Mommy! Kitty’s green!!!”). Upon entering the other room, she set the remote down, so it was now somewhere I would never think of looking, such as in the cat food bin.

THEORY TWO: Allie had started singing the “Clean Up” song and grabbed everything she could, including my remote, and cleaned it up on into the trashcan. Unwittingly, I had marched my remote to its ultimate death on trash day.

As I presented my scenarios, my wife looked at me with a look that said, “Come on, meteor!!!” She told me that she was sure the remote was somewhere and that it would “turn up.” Magically, I suppose. The words of a guilty conscience, thought Mike.

Well, after about a week, I was growing impatient. I had made several more searches through the house to no avail. Finally, I decided I would give in and simply buy a new remote control. I called the manufacturer to find the price of a new one.

“Parts, can I help you,” a cheery voice answered.

“You can help me by telling me where my remote is,” I said. I have a feeling I think I’m a lot funnier than most customer service reps.

After the rep got through my inane chatter, she put me on hold while she located my model of remote. She came back, just as cheery as ever. “OK, Mr. Gibbons, we found your remote. With shipping, the total comes to $50.34.”

FIFTY DOLLARS!?!?!? I told her that was outlandish, and that I could buy a new VCR for that. She responded by saying, “Well, many of your retail stores are having sales on tools.” I have no idea what the correlation was there, so I just let it slide.

I hung up the phone, resigned to the fact that my remote – my very expensive remote, it turns out – was gone forever. I slumped into my recliner, dejected. My wife said that we should take one last good look around the house, and if we still didn’t find it, we could buy a universal remote. It couldn’t do all of the same things as the original, but it was better than nothing.

So we started checking around, and I, of course, was making comments about how if we ever did find my remote, I was going to put it up on a shelf high enough that I was the only one in the house who could reach it, since I was obviously the only one responsible enough to be entrusted with it. As I was grumbling, I slid my hand deep in the back of my recliner. As I tilted the chair back, a slight opening greeted my hand. I slid my fingers three or four inches inside, and guess what I found? A human foot!

No, kidding, it was the remote. I had been sitting on it all this time, and I had blamed other innocent folks for its disappearance, despite what, apparently, was my own doing. In fairness to me, the place it had fallen was only accessible when the chair was fully reclined, so it was kinda like it was in a little trapdoor hiding space.

 Besides, it doesn’t matter whose fault it was. What matters is that the problem is solved.