One Million Channels...and Spongebob's On

With kids around, there's really no need for a remote control.

Five televisions, each with 1000-plus channels, and we are perpetually watching Spongebob Squarepants.

Time Warner Cable really should offer a parental discount. Most of us never get to see ESPN, let alone ESPN2, with kids ruling the show. Lifetime, HGTV, the History Channel - I hear they exist, but I have yet to see anything but Spongebob, his famous square arse and his little network friends.

So we keep buying TVs, putting them in new places in the hopes of having a set of our own. We've tried sneaking into other rooms, looking for a television without a child planted in front.

But here they come, racing behind us, beating us to the couch. The males of the house, my husband and son, both lunge for the remote at the same time. Click! Guess what's on?

That's right, you nailed it - Nickelodeon.

This especially irks my husband, who wants to watch ALL the channels ALL the time. Like many men, he has another woman - her name is Remote Control. His faithful lover R.C. offers him hundreds of choices and hours of flicking fun.

Yet the television continually blares shows rendered in primary colors.

Couple this with today's studly program offerings - Sportscenter, Cops, anything on the Military Channel - and you can see the guy's dilemma. His colleagues often ask him what he watched the night before.

''Hey, did you see 'Rock of Love' last night? Chicks were fighting - in a Jell-O pit!'' says friend one.

''Nah. The kids were watching the TV,'' says my man.

''You been watching Shark Week on Discovery Channel?'' asks friend two.

''Couldn't watch it - iCarly marathon,'' says my husband.

''Dude - you watch the Buckeyes Saturday?'' says friend three. ''Double overtime!''

''Nope. Five brand-new episodes of Spongebob, all this week,'' he says.

Way back in the day when we were kids, if the sky was clear, the planets aligned and the foil-covered antenna aimed just so, we had three choices: ABC, CBS and NBC. That little plastic RCA only showed children’s programs on Saturday mornings. Pop Tarts in hand, we sat bundled in our footie pajamas watching Superfriends, Speed Buggy, Schoolhouse Rock and Grape Ape, their vibrant colors reduced to shades of gray on the black and white sets.

Our moms and dads slept in while we were glued to the TV all morning, and no doubt some of our parents can thank Scooby Doo and his crew for the chance to conceive our younger siblings.

The rest of the time, we got stuck watching whatever the grownups watched - the news, Kojak, Chico and the Man, All in the Family. If we complained, we were told - in profane terms - to take our plaid-polyester-panted behinds elsewhere. If we kept griping, we had a good chance of a swift parental smack.

Ah, the good old days. A kid could be a kid, and a parent could be abusive

Fast forward the VCR, and here we’ve landed in 2009 with all these color televisions, and thousands of channels. But not much has changed for us: we still have no TV rights.

So guys? We are old and tired, and we quit. Here’s your remote. Your Dad and I will be in the bathroom, hanging the new flat-screen.

Ma'am This

Someone at work is trying to kill me.

Or, I may kill him. I’m not sure.

How’s this happening? Death by ma‘am.

"Morning, ma'am."
“Afternoon, ma‘am.”
"Have a nice lunch, ma'am."

He works there in the lobby, sees me several times a day, ma‘ams me constantly. I’m ready to blow, it’s getting to that point. Here’s what I’m going to tell that little man:

“Stop the ma’am-ness. Now. I’ve got a good ten years, 20 pounds and two inches on you. I think I can take you. Keep it up, and you’re goin’ down.”

Because with every ma’am he lobs my way, I grow older, I grow angrier. First ma’am of the day? Blood pressure rises, right eye begins to twitch. Next one? Wrinkles spread, collagen breaks down. Lunchtime ma’am? Osteoporosis. After that, the effects are cumulative, spiraling out of control.

By 5 p.m., I’m a goner.

He can’t seem to stop himself. I’ve tried to hide, tried all the best evasion tactics - the duck and run, the no eye-contact, the fake cell phone conversation, Ipod earbuds.

But it never fails. He hits me with those ma’ams anyway. Bullets to my youth.

I’ve told him, in a reasonable fashion, of my deep disdain for the word.

“Please don’t call me that. It makes me feel old. My name‘s Dawn,” I said.

“It’s a sign of respect,” he said.

Respect? How about truth - you want the truth? Ma’am is a verdict. The ma’am-user has made an age-judgment based on appearance. And this conclusion is generally not welcomed by the ma’am at hand.

It’s a downright four-letter word.

Four out of five of my girlfriends surveyed also hate being called ma'am. We miss ‘Miss.’ Sunny, happy days those were, not so long ago, when waitresses, store clerks, little lobby dudes looked at our then wrinkle-free skin and saw a ‘Miss’ and not a ‘Ma’am.’

But somehow, someway, despite our best exercise and SPF 45 efforts, we went over Ma'am Mountain anyway. That is, according to little lobby dudes, the guys at the BP station and most other minimum wage employees. Geniuses all.

Since I fear for the safety of these folks, I’m calling for a national m-word re-education policy. According to all the guys behind the counters, I am quite the expert. I’ll be glad to help. Here are some occasions when it's OK to call a woman 'ma'am':

-When checking her into the nursing home
-When helping her shop for a walker
-When giving her directions to her great-granddaughter’s baptism
-When she's unconscious
-When assisting her in finding just the right dress for her 65th wedding anniversary
-While changing the tire on her Buick, which flattened on the way to her weekly hair appointment

And the very best time to call a woman ma’am?

The day she’s forgotten her hearing aids.

Welcome to the Diner

Hello! My name is Mommy, and I'll be your server this evening.

I will also be this eatery's chef, hostess, manager and busboy.

Yeah, Mommy is talented like that. That's how Mommy rolls.

Tonight we'll be serving chicken nuggets, pizza and some sort of dead animal for your Dad. Oh - and a dinky-dang-diet-meal for me.

That's right. Chef Mommy here will prepare FOUR different meals for FOUR different people! Just as she has for the last SEVEN years...

Mommy is amazing like that. That's how Mommy rolls.

I won't bother you with The Chef's Special. It's irrelevant. I haven't prepared a recipe since you were born. Recipes, in general, don't come from a box. And we all know, if it doesn't come out of a box, it isn't going into your mouth.

You say you'd like chocolate milk, and not the plain variety I've set before you? So sorry, sir! Here - let me fix that. No, really. Don't get up. Serving you is one of life's great pleasures.

Again - that's how Mommy rolls.

What's that, young miss? You say you don't like the service here? Not enjoying Mommy's mood tonight? You say you want to go to Grandma's house?

I tell you what: Let's go to Grandma's house. Only, not the cookie-baking, junk-making granny you know today.

Let's have some fun. Let's go back...way back to the 70s and see what Granny's making for dinner, when she was a mom like me. Close your eyes, now...

Hmm...what's this? Why, it's pork chops - with (gasp!) bones in-tact, fried in a skillet. And - (yikes!) - lima beans. Rounding it all out, we have (horrors!) baked potatoes, with salt, pepper and a little butter. No sour cream in sight.

Still four people. But guess what, kids? ONE meal. Mmm-hmmm. Don't like it? That's fine with Grandma.

Don't worry. She does offer choices. You can:

1. Eat the pork chops, beans and potatoes, or
2. Go right to bed.

Because that? Is how 70s Mommies rolled.

Well...look who's returned! Welcome back to 2010, kids.

Enjoy your meals.