Not even remotely in control

By Marla Boone - Contributing Columnist

Communication is defined as the imparting or exchanging of information or news. Great. Now, can you decipher what is being “communicated” by the following phrase: “see it into your hands”? Me neither.

Steve knows a lot more about a lot of things than I do. One of the things he knows a lot about is baseball. Here is what I know about baseball: almost nothing. And, as I have mentioned before, the little bit I do know has come from watching the movie “Bull Durham.” I found out only recently that baseball has strategy. I believed the coach in the movie when he said baseball is a simple game. You throw the ball, you hit the ball, you catch the ball. Being married to Steve has increased my knowledge of the game but, alas, not my skill level. It remains somewhere well below T-ball, especially in the ball-catching department. Also, I throw like a girl. (Not like today’s girl athletes. They can throw the ball at supersonic speeds all the live-long day and wing it in there, babe, wing it, wing it right in there. I throw like a pre-Title IX girl whose every phys ed class in high school consisted of dodge ball. At which I also stunk.)

The man who promised to love, honor, and distain the designated hitter is, shall we say, less than eager to try to teach me to throw or catch. Yet, he coached baseball for many years. I am sure he has seen bad athletes before. What I am not so sure of is that he has seen someone so utterly devoid of athletic skill as I am.

Very often, he retires for the evening before I do. When this happens, I seize the opportunity to take control of the TV remote. Since the remote is usually (and by usually I mean all of the time) in his possession, Steve will have to (begrudgingly) get the instrument to me. How does he do this? He throws it — a nice soft underhand that even a 3-year-old could field. But not me. In various attempts to catch the remote, I have had it bounce off my hands, off my newly replaced knee, off my foot, and on one particularly memorable occasion, the remote bounced off my chair and then knocked my iPad onto the floor.

That’s when he says, “See it into your hands.” As though I know where my hands are at every single minute of every single day.

Why, you must be asking yourself, do I keep putting myself into the position of both having a large piece of hard plastic ricochet off my anatomy and then being made fun of when I don’t catch it? Getting sole custody of the TV remote is a powerful impetus as well as a rarely experienced one. Plus I am an eternal optimist. Just as I know some day Donald Trump’s comb-over is finally going to budge in the wind, I know I am going to catch that clicker. Just as I have faith that Reubenesque women will come back into style, I have faith the remote is going to float effortlessly — not to mention painlessly — to me. Just as I am certain the team I root for in basketball is going to win the NCAA tournament, I am certain my changing the TV station is not going to involve either a band aid or Apple Care.

Not catching the remote is just the initial problem. When Steve throws it and I fail to catch it, the remote, of course, falls somewhere else. Not unlike bread slathered with jelly, it inevitably lands in a manner so as to do the most damage possible. So when the remote tumbles to its destiny, it strikes one of its buttons or another. “Or another” is the key phrase here.

When I recover the remote from wherever it has fallen and start gleefully having my way with it, there is no response. The button that has been inadvertently depressed has skewed the entire workings of the remote. So I have to throw myself on the mercy of Mr. I-Know-How-To-Work-This-And-You-Don’t. And yes, our TV system is that complicated. Remember the time we unhooked it and it took two years and a $389 service call to get it reconnected?

After about four episodes of having to get back out of bed to fix the remote, Steve has commented, ”Maybe you should just stick to stuff you know, if you catch my drift.” Nope. Didn’t catch that either.

By Marla Boone

Contributing Columnist

Marla Boone resides in Covington and writes for the Troy Daily News and Piqua Daily Call.

Marla Boone resides in Covington and writes for the Troy Daily News and Piqua Daily Call.