The Real Power Behind the Potato

This is it. This is my goodbye column. Goodbye to the old millennium.

Bags packed. Headed out the door. Traveling light.

Just me . . . and my remote control device.

It’s all I need, all I ever needed. Everything else was extraneous. With my remote control, I controlled the world.

From any position, too: sitting, standing, reclining on the couch. Why, I could raise or lower the volume with my back to the set at 20 paces.

With my remote control in my hand, I had it all. In fact, it was an extension of my hand, an extension of me.

I loved my remote control.

And I love you, Howard.

“Oh, my remote control.”

Oh, my Howard.

Getting the picture? This was no ordinary relationship.

I could go fast, jabbing my entire run of channels in only a few seconds. But that was so unsatisfying. Instead, I loved letting my index finger linger on my remote control, love massaging the “channel” button ever so slowly before I pushed it: Channel up, channel down. Channel up, channel down.

Ohhhhhh.

I treated my remote control nicely, it treated me nicely. One day, it didn’t respond, though. I was terrified. I couldn’t bear the thought of something bad happening to my remote control, of losing my remote control. What good was my right hand if not wrapped around my remote control?

I tried everything. I rubbed it. Cleaned it. Shined it. Cradled it. Spoke to it.

“What is it, my little remote control? Something I said? Something I did? Did I hit ‘power’ prematurely, causing you to stop before you were ready?”

No response.

Then I tried something drastic. If this didn’t work, nothing would.

I turned my remote control on its face, buttons down, then gently slid open the rear chamber, removed the batteries and inserted two new ones. Then I turned it on its back and pressed “power.”

Yes, yes, YESSSSS!!!

Thereafter, we were closer than ever.

Was my wife jealous because I spent more time with my remote control than with her? Yes. But it wasn’t always that way.

At first, she thought it was sweet that I treated my remote control so affectionately. “You’re such a sensitive man,” she said. “So loving, so caring. The remote control is lucky to have you.”

That was true. I’d heard stories about the terrible, unspeakable things some men did to their remote controls.

My wife’s attitude began to change, though. “You haven’t been on your feet all weekend,” she said one night. “Aren’t you becoming a little too dependent on the remote control?”

I looked up at her from the couch where I had been changing channels. “Dependent on the remote control? No, I don’t think so. It’s just something I like the feel of. I’m sure we will get up tomorrow.”

“We?”

“The remote control and me.”

Things got worse the night my wife asked for the remote control and I refused to fork it over.

“Why do you want it?” I asked, suspiciously.

“Tonight, I’d like to be the one deciding what to watch.”

“It’s always about you, isn’t it? What about my needs?”

“You always have it. Why can’t I have it?”

My mind raced. I had to think quickly. “Because if too many people touch it . . . it may not function properly.”

That seemed to assuage her for the moment. But a few evenings later, she became utterly hostile and began pounding on the bathroom door, causing a terrible scene.

“What are you doing in there with the remote control?”

“Uh, nothing. Just cleaning it, that’s all.”

“Unlock this door immediately!”

Things were getting intolerable. I didn’t see how it would be possible for the three of us to occupy the same house much longer. That feeling grew when I awoke on the couch one morning and was horrified to find the remote control missing from my hand.

Fearing the worst, I confronted my wife and demanded to know what she had done with the remote control. “It’s in the trash because you won’t be needing it anymore,” she said.

“Won’t be needing it anymore? Are you mad, woman?” I fished it out of the trash and rubbed it softly.

“Oh, my remote control. I found you.”

Oh, my Howard.

My wife was clever, though. “Look what I have here,” she said. In her hand was a remote control. Longer, slimmer, shinier. “Yes, my own remote control,” she said. “It’s a newer model. Lots more buttons. And I bought one for you, too.”

I put down the old remote control and picked up the new one. It felt wonderful in my hand. So smooth, so sleek, so many, many buttons for my index finger to touch. Although my heart was breaking, I knew what I must do.

But, my Howard.

“I never promised it would be forever,” I said while returning the old remote control to the trash.

That night, my wife and I watched TV together. She had her remote control.

“Oh, my remote control.”

Oh, my Carol.

And I had mine.

“Oh, my remote control.”

Oh, my Howard.

Dueling remote controls. A marriage for the new millennium.