Scott and I came home the other day from being out for maybe a couple of hours at most. We know with five animals in the house that we need to survey for damage immediately upon arrival... to check for electrocuted cats, torn up toys, or, worst of all, messes.
Well we had both just about finished our laps around the house and Scott was hanging up his coat and taking off his shoes when I saw a horrible sight.
Our remote lay lifeless on the floor in the living room, feet away -- and below-- its home on the coffee table. Like blood and guts, the back battery cover and the batteries lay strewn across the floor.
I did what any wife would do.
I said a silent prayer and left it for Scott to find.
I also picked up the nearest cat, hoping to save at least one life in the bloodbath that would soon start.
When we settled down on the couch to watch some TV before bed, Scott sat in the silence, pushing buttons that would just not do their job. No power, no channel changing. Just sad silence.
Fear not, readers, for my husband had another remote ordered and on its way within 30 minutes.
It arrived yesterday and we both celebrated its arrival by watching TV and basking in the technology that allows us to sit on our fat lazy butts and go back and forth between the Newlywed Game episodes and a football game.
(And no animals were harmed in this process...)