It's official. I have turned into my mother.
We have a multitude of remote-control gadgetry lolling about on various end tables and TV trays-serving-as-end-tables. The #1 son is in charge of all things electronic. I believe he is so in love with technology that he would rather host umpteen infrared flapdoodles than streamline our lazy man's attention deficit order-givers with a couple of universal remotes.
The zapper for the living room TV has been sluggish of late. It might take two or three pushes to turn the power ON, or a couple stabs to adjust the volume. He's not like Satellite Remote, who has a bad ZERO button, which must be depressed like the weight of the world concentrated in a thumb.
Because Satellite Remote has his innards restrained with a couple of strips of Scotch Magic Tape, I can pretty much gauge when the last battery change occurred. Not that I'm psychic or anything, but Nervous Tic H has a habit of picking at the sticky adhesive while watching his How To Murder Your Wife shows on TrueTV. Judging by the raggedyness of the gut-checkers, I can sense when Satellite Remote is in need of a power boost.
TV Remote is the red-headed stepchild of the Hillbilly clicker family. (Don't go hatin'. My mother, sister, and nephew have red hair. And I have raised a stepchild or two who held me in high regard.) TV Remote is used as an afterthought, once in the morning, once at night, and sometimes for volume if we want to punish Satellite Remote for his ZERO shenanigans by ignoring him.
Yesterday, I pried open the belly of TV Remote, perchance to deduce what ailed him. It was obvious. His batteries were stamped MAR 2004. YET HE LIVES! So I sealed him back up to click until the bitter end. Or until my next trip to The Devil's Playground.
I need to go check the dates on my Ranch Dressing.