I’d like to think I’m a simple girl.
I mean, I grew up eating spam sandwiches and spaghetti out of a box for Christ’s sake. I’m not asking for a lot. (Shut up)
What I really want more than anything? A TV that turns on and off, has channel up and down, and volume control. I don’t need it to do my taxes or bring me to orgasm (that is what the blender is for–the orgasm, NOT the taxes).
Anyway, when we moved into this house five years ago, Tommy had absolutely no interest in the design, layout, color scheme or functionality of the house. It was my project and mine alone.
Except for the TV situation.
We have the most complicated television watching experience on the planet.
Period.
And even worse? No one knows how the fuck to work them–any of them. Not even Tommy.
True story.
It’s a complicated algorithm but basically you point the remote to your chin while pressing the ON button, hold your breath, lift your right leg, and in your head name as many fruit as you can in 30 seconds. That usually gets you to channel 2. Which is the Spanish channel. No offense to Spanish people, but I don’t understand what you’re saying or why you’re so dramatic. It might be Escamas Heladas to you, but it’s just Frosted Flakes to me.
Anyway, recently there’s been a problem with the entire “Televisioning System” which is code for “It’s totally FUCKED.” More importantly? It looked like I wouldn’t be able to watch Top Chef. Someone call 911.
I came home to find that the closet which houses the Broadcast Equipment was smoking and making guttural sounds that I first mistook as our cat being on fire.
If only the cat thing had been true. (Sorry Sadie, but we’re talking Top Chef! And The Daily Show! And PBS! You sit there on the couch, shaking your head and judging me–don’t think I don’t know what you’re thinking–Yes, I showed my boobs on the Internet–So what)
Without hesitating, I reached in, unplugged everything, and stood there in anticipation of the Apocalypse.
The lights that once flickered green, red, and blue, went blank.
And just like that a little piece of me died inside.
Tommy came home then and I called him over to the closet.
*Before* the blackout
I pointed at the massive mass of mess and said, “Well? What are you going to do about THIS?”
He reached inside, grabbed the plug and jammed it in the outlet. “There. Fixed.”
It was hard to not stab him in the eye socket with my pointy heel of my shoe. For real.
“*I* unplugged it, you idiot. It was making these weird grindy noises. Like it was about to explode.”
“Did you call the TV programmers?”
*Only WE have TV programmers*
“Um, no.”
He loses interest then and starts to walk away.
“Hey, Hey, Hey, buddy. Whereya going?”
“I’m tired, Shauna. I don’t care if the TVs don’t work.”
“Yes. But do you want to have sex with me ever again?”
“I’ll call the TV programmers.”
Thank you.
By the way, the TVs totally work again.
That Tommy, he’s no dummy.
PS. Tommy says I’m using the word Apocalypse wrong. If that’s the case, how’d he know what word I was talking about?
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