My parents’ 51 1/2 year marriage very nearly ended in divorce last night – over the Direct TV remote. Trust me, I wish I was kidding.
It all started when my father insisted on tuning in to game one of the world series. My mother wasn’t opposed to this – she’s as big of a baseball fan as he is. (Although she’s still bitter about the Dodgers desertion of Brooklyn.)
No, the problem was that in his search to find the game among the 935 channels listed, he changed the format of the screen.
I wish I could say it was the first time. But it wasn’t. I’m sure it has something to do with the fact that he insists on using the remote while he’s sitting in the dark. Without his glasses.
You can probably guess who gets called in to fix his mess.
For some reason my father’s remote antics struck a nerve with my mother last night, and an argument ensued. Of course, if you ask either one of them, they’ll tell you it was a “discussion.” The raised voices? A necessity, my mom with explain, putting it all down to my father’s hearing.
By now, I’ve realized that my parents actually like these heated little exchanges. Maybe it adds a little spice to their more than half-century long relationship. (I’d rather not think about that, thank you very much.) All I know is that I don’t like it. It gives me agita.
They, of course, think this is amusing. Me, not so much.
I can’t help it. I just don’t like conflict. (Hence my aversion to school board meetings.) As soon as they start having one of their, ahem, discussions – I start popping antacids.
Last night’s little episode didn’t top what I’ve taken to calling the “rose bush incident” from a month or so back.
It went down on one of the rare week nights when my social calendar was clear of school board meetings or any other engagements, and I was looking forward to a quiet evening watching a movie with my dear parents.
For some reason or another, our conversation turned to roses. I can’t remember what started us on the topic, but it was fine at first. Until my darling mother and father began “discussing” a particular rose bush in the front of our house.
