My husband is a wonderful man,
Heís handsome, strong and true.
But there are times he angers me
Till I donít know what to do.
The tug of war for the remote control
Has often caused some pain.
I donít enjoy the aliens
Or cops who have been slain.
Give me a good old home make over
Or cooking with Paula Deen.
These are definitely more my style
Than a ďDie HardĒ action scene.
I count to ten when he walks in
And starts pushing on the clicker.
Doesnít he see Iím watching a show?
Itís then we start to bicker.
ďExcuse me, would you turn that back?Ē
Iíve often been heard to say.
ďBut honey,Ē he says through clenched teeth
Itís championship wrestling day.Ē
I fold my arms across my chest
And sit there in a funk.
Anyone can surely see
That wrestler is a punk.
He canít compete with color swatches
And lots of creamy butter.
My nostrils flare, my eyebrows soar
And then I start to mutter.
In a testy voice, though itís very soft,
I complain and even whine.
After all, I had it first
The remote is mine, all mine.
Itís then he sometimes looks my way,
His eyebrows scrunched up tight.
He claims I get my pick of shows
Most any other night.
Our memories must be at odds,
Thatís not what I recall.
Anger bubbles up in me
And I stomp down the hall.
If I canít watch the shows I want
Iíll just go on to bed.
He wonít miss me sitting there
Heís got the remote instead.
By our bed sits a sweet bouquet
Of carnations and a rose.
A nice surprise from hubby dear,
Heís not so bad, I suppose.
Heís really such a thoughtful guy,
At least thatís most of the time.
So he wants to rule the remote,
Is that such a crime?
My mad spell starts to slip away
As I devise a plan.
Tomorrow I will hit the mall
With charge card in my hand.
ďLoad up a TV,Ē I will say
While signing in black ink.
ďAnd I want your finest remote.
I want that one in pink.Ē
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