The pull and tug between the two sexes was played out frequently in my living room during the past week. I hate to call it a “war,” but define “pull and tug” as you will.
I really think that if males and females could figure out the whole control of the remote control, then perhaps the effects might trickle down and there would be no more problems with driving or putting the toilet seat up and down or what to watch on TV.
Speaking of which, this pull and tug involved the remote control of the television and a 13-year-old boy cousin and an 11-year-old cousin. We’ll call them “the boy” and “the girl.” There was also an 8-year-old girl cousin, but she didn’t have a chance getting her hands on the remote control.
One of my kids used to call the magical tool of television the “moat troll.” I guess it was a little creature that lived, when you could find it, in the couch and reigned over the box that brought happiness and peace to the mother.
If a young child happened to grab the moat troll from an older brother or sister, everyone would scream, life would be disrupted and the child would laugh at the power he or she wielded.
Last week would have been easier if the remote control had been a moat troll. He could have shouted out and let us know where he was hiding or I could have strangled him and be done with the arguing about him.
I tried to explain how the universe worked as it pertains to the remote control, without actually setting up either child for stringent sexist ideologies in the future.
“Why does he always get to control the remote?” the girl said, a disgusted emphasis on “he” accompanied by indignant eye rolling.
“I had it first,” he said, scrolling through the multitudes of options too quickly for anyone to see.
“Life just seems to work better when the male people control the remote,” I said, acknowledging I had given up the battle years ago for peace in the family.
Maybe I whispered behind my hand, “It makes them feel like they are in control even though the women really are.” I would say “because we bake the cookies,” but I know many men who are good bakers and cookers. Just not in my house. And if my husband, David, were to want to bake cookies, I would feel threatened and hide the recipe to my famous oatmeal chocolate chip cookies.
“But I never get to choose the show!” the girl said.
“I am not watching a sad movie about a dog or a movie with a princess in it,” the boy said, with a matching amount of the aforementioned disgust and indignation in his voice.
“Be nice and let her have a turn,” I told the boy.
And he was and did. They agreed on a show involving an unbelievable scenario of a bunch of young teenagers, with not an intelligent adult in sight, who saved all sorts of people on Malibu Beach, while occasionally stuffing fake-looking kelp into someone’s limo.
At least the power and authority of the boys and girls in the show were evenly matched. Mostly, I think that was because not a single remote control, or even a moat troll, surfaced the whole show.
I did take control of the remotes at one point because there are three of them needed to get to Disney Plus, even though one remote exists only for the purpose of changing the input. One of life’s mysteries.
But David and I got tired of looking for all the remotes during this particular grandchildren’s visit, so I put all three in a gallon plastic bag and told them if all three were still in that bag at bedtime, everyone would get two dollars.
It worked for at least one day.
And just for the record I can hold a remote control up in the dark in the middle of the night while half asleep and find “Chicago P.D.” reruns on our DVR by touch, plus fast forward and rewind, with my eyes closed.
So let the record show I do not give up control of the remote control through any inadequacy to use one. Life is just easier.
May the generations of my family be blessed with this knowledge.
Elzey is a freelance writer for the Register & Bee. She can be reached at susanelzey@yahoo.com or (434) 79-7991.
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August 03, 2020 at 05:00AM
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