The Great Remote Control Conspiracy

Many people tell of socks that disappear into an undiscovered dimension of an automatic washing machine.  My socks do not abscond in the laundry room, for which my feet are grateful.

I can’t say the same thing for reading glasses and TV remote controls.  I am convinced that those items have formed a conspiracy designed to confuse and exasperate me.

In other words, my reading glasses and the TV remote control are in cahoots to drive me crazy.
I own several pairs of those cheap reading glasses from Walgreens.  They work well, and they don’t cost a lot.  I like to keep a pair in my purse, another pair by the computer and another pair near my bed, in case I want to read something or do close work, like knitting.

The TV remote control can end up anywhere in the living room of my little studio apartment.  It has even appeared in the kitchen once or twice, leaving me wondering how it got there.

I think the remote control is the mastermind of these plots, because it is by far the most accomplished when it comes to disappearing.  I think it has included the reading glasses because that way it has buddies to share a good laugh with when one of them has sent me all over the apartment trying to find it.

“Where is the remote?” has become almost a mantra in this apartment.  I look in the last place I am sure I was holding it in my hand, and it isn’t there.  It isn’t on the computer desk.  It isn’t on the daybed.  It isn’t on the ottoman.  I look under the daybed, under the chair, in the trash receptacle.  No remote control anywhere.  I check all the bookshelves.  I find two pairs of reading glasses that I have been looking for since last month, but no remote control.

I try calling it: “Here, Remote, Remote, Remote!”

Of course, it doesn’t answer me.  It can’t talk, and it’s hiding.

In desperation, I walk over to the television, turn it on and search the channels manually (using the cable box) until I find something reasonably entertaining.

I plop down in my armchair, despairing of ever finding the elusive device and wondering if I should call the cable company and order a new one – again.

I look down.  There it is, on the floor, peeking out from under the computer desk.  It’s laughing at me.

I reach down, pick it up, wipe off the dust with a Kleenex and put it on the ottoman, in front of the armchair.  I order it to stay there and not go anywhere unless I put it there.  I’m sure it will obey me, at least until tomorrow.


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