I don’t “get” the remote control. I’ll go further than that. Only if I have detailed written out instructions can I achieve both picture and sound on the flat screen that shines in the corner of the living room mocking me. Consequently, I don’t watch much television. Which is probably good. Though sometimes, I will download something from HBO and watch it here on my little computer screen. Back in the Dark Ages, I used to enjoy flicking the thing on once in a while, back in the days when all one had to do was hit a knob and there weren’t so many channels.
I remember a particularly wonderful Christmas Day years ago. Husband and son were off skiing. I was home alone, working on Lavina, and eating an avocado sandwich for Christmas dinner. The set we had in the bedroom wasn’t much bigger than a desk size computer screen. I switched it on to the old movie channel (no menu, no variety of dingus-es, to point and press) and there it was, “The Manchurian Candidate”: my Christmas present from the powers that be! Lawrence Harvey, Angela Lansbury with a side of avocados eaten in bed. Nothing like that will ever happen to me again.
I digress. I am not alone, in this mystification concerning the remote control. A mystification that I am sure Freud would have something topical to say about. For it is true: possessing a penis enables its bearer to wield better remote control action. Just as possessing a penis enables its user to pee with impunity in places where a woman would not dare. Just as possessing a penis enables its owner to head most corporations, direct most movies, wage a majority of the wars and to in effect: run the damn world. Badly, I might add.
I was having a real attack of penis envy during yoga late this afternoon. I couldn’t stop obsessing about the debates, and how I wasn’t going to get to watch them, as I couldn’t find my detailed instructions on how to turn the f’ing thing on. And, was too humiliated to ask my husband to walk me through the whole mind bending process once again.
“Marcus!” he had said the last time I called him at work and begged. “This is it! You have to learn. I’m done!”
And even if I could coax him into it, pretend to cry even, I would be diminished and have no moral high ground. Also, it would be highly detrimental to the domestic campaign I’ve been waging lately. One wherein I don’t make dinner anymore.
I further digress. The great thing about doing yoga at the end of one’s work day, is the physical and mental release it offers. You breathe, you move, you sweat and breathe some more, and it is just like the song says, “pack up all your cares and woe, here I go, here I go, bye bye blackbird.” Today, though the substitute teacher was great, I was sweating, the blackbirds were fluttering about, but I couldn’t keep focused with my breathing. All I could think about was how furious I was at myself because I still hadn’t learned to turn on the crappy television set. Something any of the males in the room could do without batting an eye. I decided I would go home, get Henry and we’d drive around and listen to the debates in the car. Penis envy be damned!
(Gosh I’m getting sick of the P word. It’s almost as unattractive as the V word. I further digress; how come some of the ugliest, creepiest sounding words in our language are ones attached to the sex organs?)
As it turned out, Henry and I didn’t have to listen to the debates in the car.
My phone beeped as I was driving home. After I parked the car, put up the sunshade in anticipation of tomorrow’s blast, I checked my texts.
“I left the correct remote on top of the latest NY’er on coffee tbl.. Press Power. Enjoy the debates!”
For a moment, I was absolutely sure my husband was having an affair. Why was he suddenly so solicitous?
Hillary was good. Bernie was good too and it was the first time I have ever seen him in action. A socialist anti-war Jew. Woo Hoo!
I just googled Penis Envy and in addition to Freud, Horney, Lacan and all the rest of them, there’s a whole to do about an eponymous hallucinogen.
Penis Envy Mushrooms—who knew?
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