I had a really shitty day at work where I'm advocating for the client and the psychiatrist and manager are doing everything to cover their own ass'...to the point where they're being stupid enough to try that old 'keep the abuse in the family and shut up about it' crap. In the meantime, hubby is working with the satelite TV guys to install this technology so we can finally say 'Fuck You" to the cable guys.
Picture, if you will, Me...plastered on the biggest rum and coke imaginable in attempts of forgetting the earlier ambush from the powers that be. Picture my husband trying to put the new tv remote (wtf?) in my hand and instruct me how to use it.
TV on. TV off. volume. channel change. OK...brain is full...give no more info...brain full...will crash soon...shut the fuck up.
I find a few familiar channels and feel reassured in my extreme drunkeness that I will overcome and master this thing called 'satelite tv'.
The phone rings.
It's my father-in-law who lives in the flat below us. His wife has pressed some button and everything shut down and they don't know what to do.
I'm piss-drunk. Hubby's doing step-aerobics at the gym. Early-dementia-had-a-gazillion-little-strokes-87-year-old-mother-in-law hits the button of doom on the satelite remote.
Laugh so hard I piss my pants and barely spit out "I'll have Jamie call you when he's back from the gym."
This solution took immense reserve and control since, in my drunken, post-confrontation/abuse state I feel I have the patience of a rhinoceros, and I want to go 'fix' their problem myself.
I rally my fading sense of being humane and decide that Jamie can deal with his parents while I make a second killer rum & coke and forget the entire day happened.
After all, I can't seek Dr. Phil's advice because I can't find the fucking channel!!