Agita! The Conclusion.

It is now a week or so after the TV shopping debacle with dear ole mom. And I can look back on it and still not laugh or reminisce fondly. Maybe after I get the whole story written, only then, can I move on with my life. And so, I give you part two, and the conclusion, of the "New TV for Mom" saga: The Hook-Up.

I arrive with my mom and the TV at her house. My brother, Mike, is already there. We carry the television in. The box is a bit dented, but since it was the last one in the store, we took it with the salesperson's assurance that the set itself was fine. If not, we could return it. Yeah, that wasn't happening in my lifetime. That TV could have had human feces smeared across the screen and I was shoving it into its spot, plugging it in and going home to a large vodka tonic.

My brother had already removed the infamous "black & white picture" set from the infamous entertainment center. The dust was as thick as a mink stole. So my mother comes over and pushed the gigantic dust gophers around with a fuzzy duster. Well, that was pretty useless.

We open the box and inspect the TV.

When you were a child, did you ever have a dog that died? Did you ever lose a favorite toy? Did you ever shop for a TV with your mom, only to find a crack in plastic console of it when you opened it?

Yeah, all three of those really sucked. And the last one happened that day. A crack in the TV. Thoughts of packing it up and driving back to Best Buy clouded my head and sucked out any bit of life left in me. My brother spoke up first, "I think we should put it in the center, make sure it works, because that crack will be unnoticeable once we get it in there." My mother agreed. A small sliver of light pierced through the window and gave me hope that maybe the ordeal would be over soon. My mother asked if her cable remote would work the television. I told her that I'd have to program it in, but I need the cable remote instructions.

To my mother's glee, and our thankful predictions, the TV fit just fine in the entertainment center. In fact, it was perfect. You couldn't see the small crack in the plastic at all. And so we begin the confusing job of "what wire goes where." To compound the confusion, we were also going to hook up the new DVD player my brother gave her for Christmas, that my mother so vehemently opposed getting. Too bad. We're hooking up that sucker, and going home for a tall rum and Coke. My mother asked if her cable remote would work the television. I told her that I'd have to program it in, but I need the cable remote instructions. That's two.

After some unscrewing and screwing of cables, wires and whatnot, the TV flickered on to a beautiful picture. My mother asked if her cable remote would work the television. I told her that I'd have to program it in, but I need the cable remote instructions. Yeah. Are you keeping count? She tells me the cable guy left no instruction book. I tell her that I'll check mine and next time I come over, I'll program it. In the meantime, she'll have to turn on and off the television and raise the volume with one remote and operate the cable box with the other remote. My mother's medulla oblongata explodes.

Mike and I figured out how to hook up the DVD player, since we couldn't do it directly through the cable box, it had to go directly into the TV. A minor inconvenience that would make my mother more confused if she ever watches any one of the six disk set of musicals I bought her for Christmas. You know, that really expensive box set of musicals? The really expensive one, that is. My mother asked how long she'll have to use two remotes to work the TV and cable. I remind her that next time I come, I'll bring a book and program the one remote. But for now, she'll have to turn on and off the television and raise the volume with one remote and operate the cable box with the other remote. My mother's cerebral cortex explodes. I'm ready for a pitcher of rum and coke and vodka and tonic.

We start putting away the packing materials and trash, and my mother is still quite confused about the two remotes. Mind you, for about 10 years before the last TV, she was using TWO FUCKING REMOTES. Finally, the pressure cooker that is my mind goes off. The lid explodes sending beef stew all over the kitchen cabinets and ceiling. I grit my teeth and speak to her as if she's a 12-year-old who can't tie his shoes, or a 70-year old who just asked five or six times about the remote. Oh, yeah, she did. I loudly, slowly, deliberately remind her that next time I come, I'll bring a book and program the one remote. But for now, she'll have to turn on and off the television and raise the volume with one remote and operate the cable box with the other remote, just as she did for the 10 years before the last television.

I go to the bathroom, splash some water on my face, go back down, apologize and wish her much happiness with her new TV. She asks if I'm coming over tomorrow with the instruction book for the remote.

Looks like I picked the wrong day to stop beating the elderly.