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Family Daze Universal remote rendered bubble-gum filing useless
BY Debbie Farmer
The words, "Honey, I just bought a universal remote," have probably been responsible for more divorces than mid-life crisis or infidelity. The night my husband came home and spoke those words I knew the little bit of control I had over my life would soon be gone.
"You're going to love this," he assured me. "We're going to be a one-remote family. No more digging around under the furniture to change the station. The television, VCR and stereo system will be hooked together and at your fingertips."
"But, when will I clean out the sofa?" I said. "The last time I lost the remote under the cushions, I found a pretzel resembling Jerry Garcia, several $2 bills and a mood ring."
Besides, with three remotes I always knew where I stood. I color-coded each one with a wad of chewed bubble gum so I'd know at a glance which one I needed. The television was Godzilla Grape, the VCR Bazooka Blue, and the stereo was Passionfruit Pink.
I watched my husband disconnect our electronic appliances and struggle on the living room floor in the middle of a mass of tangled cords and cables like a giant spider weaving a big, black universally controlled web. Several hours later he handed me the remote.
"OK, working it is simple," he said. "The red button turns on the television and the stereo, the blue button starts the VCR with the TV, and the yellow button turns on the VCR with the stereo, but only if the stereo is off and the timer set. See? Easy, huh?"
I felt as if Einstein just recited the theory of relativity to me, in pig Latin, backwards. The only thing I knew for sure is that I needed new gum colors. I figured I'd deal with it tomorrow after he went to work.
The next day I assembled my children in the living room for a dose of educational programming while I finished chores around the house. I reached for the remote, then pointed and clicked. Nothing. I waved the remote toward the television and stood on one foot. Nothing. I fell on my knees and pleaded. Nothing. I offered it money, jewels and a cruise to the Bahamas in the spring. Still nothing.
I sat down and tried to remember my husband's color-coded instructions, but I was lost without purple--it had always started the television before. I tried pressing the red and blue buttons simultaneously, and the garage door opened, the dryer started and the toilet flushed in the downstairs bathroom, but the television didn't flicker.
I didn't give up. I kept pressing colored buttons until we were watching Barney, but listening to the Rolling Stones.
I pulled the plug and ushered everyone outside to play. I figured we could survive eight hours without the television, until my husband came home. Things were going great until it began to rain. By mid-afternoon we did every puzzle in the house and colored on every piece of paper I had, including the TV guide.
I herded my family back into the living room and grasped the remote. I held it to my lips, said a short prayer, aimed, and pressed. Suddenly, there was a picture on the screen with matching words.
We gathered on the sofa and watched an episode of Animal Planet because it was educational, and I was afraid of turning on a hostile appliance while trying to change the channel.
We were enthralled by a herd of sea lions beached on an island in Argentina. This would've been a great learning experience, if it hadn't been mating season. I hoped my children wouldn't notice.
"Why is the big one hurting the baby?"
"It's not the baby. It's the mommy." I frantically pressed the clicker, then threw my body in front of the screen when nothing happened. "It's just a game--like football."
Finally the sea lion segment ended, and we moved on to the next animal. I began to sob during the Life of Anthropoids. "What's wrong, Mommy?" my children asked.
"I just want to change the channel without turning on the garbage disposal," I said. "I want the television on when I press a button, and Mick Jagger off. I want to listen to music without having to earn a Ph.D. in engineering from Harvard. I want some control back in my life!"
My children stared at me until my 3-year-old son broke the silence. "Music?" he said as he gently took the remote from my hand, turned off the TV, and put his Barney sing-a-long tape in the cassette player. Then he pressed play, adjusted the eight knobs on the equalizer, and balanced the speakers.
I watched in amazement and wondered how long it would take my husband to find the universal remote if I stuffed it under the sofa cushions, behind my collection of furry cheese sticks.
Debbie Farmer can be contacted at debbie@ecis.com.
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Saratoga, California Since 1975
