“Where’s the clicker?” resounds through the room. (That’s what we call the remote control. Clicker is two syllables shorter than remote control and exactly as long as remote. But I digress.)

“I don’t know.”

“You had it last.”

“I thought I put it on the table.”

“Well, you didn’t, unless you put it under the peanut butter jar, and it’s not there.”

“Maybe it’s in your desk drawer.”

“I never put it there. Maybe it’s on the floor between your feet.”

“I don’t see it there.”

“Maybe it dove into the cushion of your chair. Fish for it!”

“Maybe Toby took it.” (Toby’s the cat.)

“No, he’s watching Bird TV.” (Looking out the window.)

This is an accurate account of a conversation that occurs nearly daily (nightly, too, sometimes on the same day). The seeking, scrambling, fishing, and fumbling. The recriminations. The prospect of an un-entertained evening stretching out before us.

(I look back fondly on the days when the remote was attached to the TV or VCR (yes, I’m old) by a long plastic leash. All you had to do was follow it like a trail of breadcrumbs and there the clicker was! You could also follow it the other way to find out where the TV was, not that we used it that way all that much. But I digress again.)

When Dan gets tired of the cooking, crime, and comedies I like, he says, “Can I see the clicker?” If I’m feeling puckish, I simply hold it up within his line of sight. He sighs and says, “Gimme that.” (I don’t really do that. Much, that is.)

I must say I don’t understand the way Dan uses the remote. Rather than selecting a program to watch, he goes to a movie channel and clicks through every film listed, muttering, “That’s a good one” or “Haven’t seen that in a while.” He never quite commits to a movie, even if I say I like one of them. He waits until I go to bed to select a movie and watch it or episodes of Quantum Leap. Or wakes up at 3:00 a.m. and goes downstairs to do the same.

(We do have different taste in movies. I like musicals, swashbuckler movies, and anything starring Kris Kristofferson. Dan likes war movies, Thin Man movies, and anything featuring Peter Sellars, none of which features Kris K. But I digress some more.)

But we were talking about remote controls. At least I was. I think.

Custody of the clicker passes back and forth during the day. When Dan’s at work, it’s mine, all mine. I spend most of the day with the TV on, even when I’m doing my writing. I usually have the live channels on and flip around when I get bored with one. On any given day, I may listen to a few episodes of Ink Master, a couple of Buffy, some Dr. Pimple Popper, and maybe Forensic Files, if they have an episode I haven’t already seen. I don’t generally pay attention to what’s on. It’s just my “emotional support noise.” I don’t like sitting in a completely quiet house, and the cat doesn’t make that much noise. Or if he does, there’s something very wrong.

(It was Dan who got me started on Dr. Pimple Popper. I was reluctant to watch it because it had such a dopey, repellent name. But after a few episodes, I found it tolerable. It was another medical show, kind of like Mystery Diagnosis or Monsters Inside Me, both of which I like, except with cysts and lipomas instead of parasites. But I digress even more.)

Then, when Dan comes home, we have to negotiate what to watch. Big Bang Theory or The Dirty Dozen? Dr. Strangelove or Forged in Fire? Beat Bobby Flay or Bell, Book, and Candle? The Three/Four Musketeers or Arsenic and Old Lace?

Finally we settle on something. It doesn’t really matter what. Inevitably, Dan falls asleep in the comfy chair. I grab the clicker and change the channel.