Monday, November 01, 2004

The Control Freak and The Missing Clicker

After we returned from Trick-or-Treating last night, Hot Wife and I got Spiderman and Little Red Riding Hood to bed and I settled down in front of the tube to enjoy my Milky Way-induced sugar buzz. And so began the worst night of my life.

See, I have this control issue, and the primary instrument of my domination and tyranny is the remote control to the television in our living room. It has become an extension of my right hand. It’s who I am. If the TV is on and I am not in possession of “the clicker,” I simply cannot be in the room. Hot Wife has very few shortcomings, but two of them are that she does not change channels quick enough and she watches far too much Food TV.

Last night, the clicker went AWOL.

I looked everywhere for it: under the couch cushions, on top of the TV, in the trash cans, in the kids’ rooms, in the fridge, in the bathroom, under the beds, in my ass crack and that of every member of my family (including Weak-Bladdered Dog, whose right rear paw was pumping feverishly in circles as I performed said cavity search).

I felt my pulse quicken. My control! Where is it?

“Honey, have you seen the remote?”


“Well, it’s gone. It’s gone! Help me find it, for Christ’s sake!”

Sensing an imminent meltdown, Hot Wife withdrew her hand from Left-Handed Power-Hitting Son’s bag of candy and assisted me in the search. She took the bedrooms and bathrooms, I took the living room, kitchen, garage and dining room. My anxiety was elevating to a full-blown panic attack. My palms were sweating profusely. I was hyperventilating.

Thirty minutes later, we reconvened in the living room. Both of us had come up empty.

“Fuck!” I belted. “This fucking sucks! How am I supposed to watch SportsCenter, Extreme Home Make-Over, The Real World and election spin-doctoring on three different cable news stations at the same time now?”

I contemplated a return to the antiquated practice of walking all the way over to the TV to change channels, but the very thought of it made me feel small and pathetic. This isn’t China and I don’t have to live like a fucking caveman. So I just sat there and pouted. Arms crossed. Brow furrowed. Head down.

Hot Wife tried to calm my nerves, suggesting that perhaps I should call my EAP. But I was in no mood to talk to a therapist. All I wanted was my goddamned clicker and there’s nothing that some granola-eating, Birkenstock-wearing head-shrinker could say to me to make it any better. Besides, people who wear Birkenstocks have stinky feet.

After another half hour, I grew tired of pouting. I stood up, walked over to the kids’ Halloween candy and ate Chewy Sweet Tarts and Jujy Fruits until I grew sleepy and lapsed into a candy coma.


At 9:49 AM, Blogger Lala said...

SO??? Where IS it?

At 11:08 PM, Blogger Ms-Chievous said...

Dude, I know you read Dooce because that is where I found your link. You can't type this...
"we reconvened in the living room. Both of us had come up empty."
I have NO idea what your post was about now.

At 9:11 AM, Blogger HDawg said...

Dear DDawg,
not all of us wear Birks!!! (we might have stinky feet though!)


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