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  Updated 1-2-08




























Who Really Owns the Remote?

By Georgia Richardson

It’s Friday night and I’m on a mission.  Dashing for my car, I performed my usual “Weekend Spin Out” that would rival any Nascar driver.  Get out of my way little Volkswagen ‘cause tonight is MY night and I’m in a hurry!  Driving along and daydreaming, I mull over my entertainment choices since the new season of shows begin tonight.  I pulled up the vision of my horizontal self with a full belly, relaxing on the couch. Yep, I’m thinking three things as I’m homeward bound and they are MONK, my favorite show, Taco Bell, and Krispey Kreme Donuts.  I smile and think, “Does it get any better than this? 

Pulling into the driveway, I give my strategy a quick once over.  Flip through the mail, do the bathroom thing, walk the dog, fix food, assume the position.  What science!  What art!  I opened the back door to find Trixie, the wonder dog waiting impatiently and wagging something that use to resemble a tail.  Dubbed “the wonder dog” because I’ve wondered why I have her.  She eats, sleeps, and leaves surprises.  End of story.  Oh, NOW I remember…pet versus another birth.  Good choice.

I walked Trixie, fixed the food and entered the “family room.”  This brings up another thought.  I mean we never sit in this room, you know…as a FAMILY, so why is it called the “family” room.  No one watches the same shows, or even wants to.  It should be called the “whoever gets there first and gabs the remote” room.  To prove my point…as I entered the room there it was.  THE SON.  The person I gave up muscle strength in my belly for…the person who I have nurtured the last 18 years and have dolled out my last 50 bucks for a new baseball bat when what I really wanted was new shoes. 

There he was, sitting there on the couch with MY remote in his hand, smiling from ear to ear, and holding hands with a Dolly Parton look-alike.  My heart stopped.  NO!  It can’t be.  Not tonight!  “Mom, how was your day?” he asked.  Uh oh…I smell a rat.  When I get home at night, we pass in the hallway and he grunts.  End of dialogue.  Suddenly, he’s developed an interest in my day?   “Good, and yours?”  I asked, playing out his little game and hoping his next words would be, “Oh, here’s your remote, we were just leaving, but I wanted Dolly to meet you first.”  Now that would be the actions of a loving son.  Then this flesh of my flesh, this ungrateful being for which I still carry countless stretch marks says, “Mom, Dorothy and I thought we would stay in tonight and just watched TV.  I told her you wouldn’t mind.”  

And there it was. Blackmail.  Using the same look he’d used on me since he was four years old, the same look that turns my heart to Jell-O and assures him of victory.  To add insult to injury, Dolly turns to me and says, “I hope you don’t mind Mrs. Richardson.  Oh, I just love your house!”  She’s endowed, thinks I’m Martha Stewart, AND has manners?  Hmmm…Knowing my son had hit pay dirt, I caved in and said, “Why no Doll-, uh…Dorothy…make yourself at home.  I’d planned on reading tonight anyway.”  Right after I slit my wrist.  “Have a donut?  Oh, and I stopped by Taco Bell if you two haven’t eaten” I bravely added.  “Well no, we haven’t Mom, we were just going to get something here.”  Liar…Liar, you know the cupboards bare!  “Well, I’m not very hungry, so you two enjoy.”  Because tomorrow, you die.  

I dragged my deflated self to the bedroom and pulled out my diary.  Dear Diary…Tomorrow is a busy day.  First, I’m washing all of my son’s underwear in with my “pink” stuff…

Copyright 2004 Georgia Richardson

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Georgia Staggers Richardson, better known as “Queen Jaw Jaw resides in North Alabama.  Author of “A Funny Thing Happened on the way to the Throne,” released May 2005, Star PublishThe Queen also writes a monthly humor column for the Shoals Woman Magazine and The Monthly View.  Visit her Queendom at 

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