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DVR Madness
Nov 16, 2019 17:45:47   #
slatten49 Loc: Lake Whitney, Texas
 
By Jody Lebel

Hi, my name is Jody, and I'm a DVR junkie. It's okay, I'm in a program now.

It started innocently enough. My favorite chef show was on the same night that my granddaughter had a school function. I asked my husband to take my place so I could see my show.

"Why don't you set the DVR," he suggested.

"I don't know how to do that," I admitted. I'm no rocket scientist.

"I'll show you how. It's easy," he said. "Do you want just tonight's show or all the episodes?"

Did he say all the episodes? My mind did a little happy dance. "Yes, all of them," I opted, a little breathily.

He was right. It was easy. Later that night when the house was still, I got to watch my show. Then next week there was a movie I want to catch but it didn't air until the wee hours of the morning. With a few clicks, it became mine.

Then came the episodes where people live in a house all summer--it's on every blessed day. I quickly figured out how to fast forward through the commercials, a powerful moment indeed.

My fingers flew over the resume, start over and save keys. Everything but delete.

I found myself eyeing the clock around the dinner hour, anxious for my time to begin. Most nights I'd trudge to the bedroom around 4 a.m. and collapse in a satisfied heap. I made it a point to never sleep on the couch.

That would send a message to my husband that I was out of control. And I wasn't. Uh-uh. Not at all.

All was well--dark circles under my eyes be damned--until one day the remote wouldn't respond. I went flying into the den and with trembling fingers handed it to my husband. "What's wrong?" I asked, fearful that my beloved clicker; my portal to the world housewives gone made and bakeries that needed saving, might be broken.

"Nothing's wrong, you're just full. You have to delete some shows."

"Delete some shows?" I shook my head in utter disbelief. "No, no, I can't do that."

He turned from his computer screen, and with an apparent new insight took in the total package of his DVR-addicted wife. "Calm down," he said. "Simply get rid of some of the older ones you've already seen."

"Can't you call the cable company and buy more space?"

He raised his eyebrows.

I tried to blackmail him. "If you loved me, you'd do it."

Stunning me with his brutal look of dismissal, he slapped the remote in my hand and in a tough-love gesture pointed to the door. "Just go do it."

I spend an agonizing hour flipping through the list, trying to decide what shows to kill. That's what it felt like: murder.

My blood pressure spoke to me, pounding an alarm in my head. Maybe the DVR should come with a warning from the Surgeon General.

My husband, the traitor, came and stood behind me. "What about the show where those people hoard everything?"

I gasped.

"Okay, how about the lady that rescues all those cats?"

"No, not her," I cried.

"Do you want me to do it for you?" he whispered seductively in my ear.

I clutched the remote to my chest. "Don't you touch this," I growled.

He backed up with his hands in the air. "Okay, then I'm off to bed to read."

I finally settled n removing the movies with the happy thought that I can always buy the DVDs.

I needed an intervention.

A few days later at breakfast, I plopped the remote in the middle of the table and, with a determined tight-lipped gesture, told my husband to delete all the shows but this week's lineup. I glared at him, secretly ashamed that I had been hiding the remote in my underwear drawer for a few days so he wouldn't mess with it.

When I got home from shopping, to my horror I found that he had deleted everything.

"Everything?" I gasped. My world tilted at a dangerous pitch.

"I could tell that's what you really wanted," he said. When I started rushing towards him in what some might perceive as a menacing fashion he quickly added, "What you really needed."

Before he could escape. I flung my arms around his neck and didn't let go for a full minute. "You saved me. You're my hero," I whispered.

I'm still in step 2--recovery--or as I call it: deep resentment. But I'm working it one day at a time.

My girlfriend told me about a game she plays online. Something called Candy Crush. I think I'll try it. It's just a game, so that probably safe, right?

Reply
Nov 16, 2019 18:03:19   #
bggamers Loc: georgia
 
slatten49 wrote:
By Jody Lebel

Hi, my name is Jody, and I'm a DVR junkie. It's okay, I'm in a program now.

It started innocently enough. My favorite chef show was on the same night that my granddaughter had a school function. I asked my husband to take my place so I could see my show.

"Why don't you set the DVR," he suggested.

"I don't know how to do that," I admitted. I'm no rocket scientist.

"I'll show you how. It's easy," he said. "Do you want just tonight's show or all the episodes?"

Did he say all the episodes? My mind did a little happy dance. "Yes, all of them," I opted, a little breathily.

He was right. It was easy. Later that night when the house was still, I got to watch my show. Then next week there was a movie I want to catch but it didn't air until the wee hours of the morning. With a few clicks, it became mine.

Then came the episodes where people live in a house all summer--it's on every blessed day. I quickly figured out how to fast forward through the commercials, a powerful moment indeed.

My fingers flew over the resume, start over and save keys. Everything but delete.

I found myself eyeing the clock around the dinner hour, anxious for my time to begin. Most nights I'd trudge to the bedroom around 4 a.m. and collapse in a satisfied heap. I made it a point to never sleep on the couch.

That would send a message to my husband that I was out of control. And I wasn't. Uh-uh. Not at all.

All was well--dark circles under my eyes be damned--until one day the remote wouldn't respond. I went flying into the den and with trembling fingers handed it to my husband. "What's wrong?" I asked, fearful that my beloved clicker; my portal to the world housewives gone made and bakeries that needed saving, might be broken.

"Nothing's wrong, you're just full. You have to delete some shows."

"Delete some shows?" I shook my head in utter disbelief. "No, no, I can't do that."

He turned from his computer screen, and with an apparent new insight took in the total package of his DVR-addicted wife. "Calm down," he said. "Simply get rid of some of the older ones you've already seen."

"Can't you call the cable company and buy more space?"

He raised his eyebrows.

I tried to blackmail him. "If you loved me, you'd do it."

Stunning me with his brutal look of dismissal, he slapped the remote in my hand and in a tough-love gesture pointed to the door. "Just go do it."

I spend an agonizing hour flipping through the list, trying to decide what shows to kill. That's what it felt like: murder.

My blood pressure spoke to me, pounding an alarm in my head. Maybe the DVR should come with a warning from the Surgeon General.

My husband, the traitor, came and stood behind me. "What about the show where those people hoard everything?"

I gasped.

"Okay, how about the lady that rescues all those cats?"

"No, not her," I cried.

"Do you want me to do it for you?" he whispered seductively in my ear.

I clutched the remote to my chest. "Don't you touch this," I growled.

He backed up with his hands in the air. "Okay, then I'm off to bed to read."

I finally settled n removing the movies with the happy thought that I can always buy the DVDs.

I needed an intervention.

A few days later at breakfast, I plopped the remote in the middle of the table and, with a determined tight-lipped gesture, told my husband to delete all the shows but this week's lineup. I glared at him, secretly ashamed that I had been hiding the remote in my underwear drawer for a few days so he wouldn't mess with it.

When I got home from shopping, to my horror I found that he had deleted everything.

"Everything?" I gasped. My world tilted at a dangerous pitch.

"I could tell that's what you really wanted," he said. When I started rushing towards him in what some might perceive as a menacing fashion he quickly added, "What you really needed."

Before he could escape. I flung my arms around his neck and didn't let go for a full minute. "You saved me. You're my hero," I whispered.

I'm still in step 2--recovery--or as I call it: deep resentment. But I'm working it one day at a time.

My girlfriend told me about a game she plays online. Something called Candy Crush. I think I'll try it. It's just a game, so that probably safe, right?
By Jody Lebel br br Hi, my name is Jody, and I'm ... (show quote)


Sure cure fire the company that supplies the DVR that's what I did because I worked 3rd shift Id come home spend to much time watching my shows wasnt getting enough sleep This way is called COLD TURKEY harsh but it works I truley understand the writers dilemma

Reply
Nov 16, 2019 18:59:45   #
PeterS
 
slatten49 wrote:
By Jody Lebel

Hi, my name is Jody, and I'm a DVR junkie. It's okay, I'm in a program now.

It started innocently enough. My favorite chef show was on the same night that my granddaughter had a school function. I asked my husband to take my place so I could see my show.

"Why don't you set the DVR," he suggested.

"I don't know how to do that," I admitted. I'm no rocket scientist.

"I'll show you how. It's easy," he said. "Do you want just tonight's show or all the episodes?"

Did he say all the episodes? My mind did a little happy dance. "Yes, all of them," I opted, a little breathily.

He was right. It was easy. Later that night when the house was still, I got to watch my show. Then next week there was a movie I want to catch but it didn't air until the wee hours of the morning. With a few clicks, it became mine.

Then came the episodes where people live in a house all summer--it's on every blessed day. I quickly figured out how to fast forward through the commercials, a powerful moment indeed.

My fingers flew over the resume, start over and save keys. Everything but delete.

I found myself eyeing the clock around the dinner hour, anxious for my time to begin. Most nights I'd trudge to the bedroom around 4 a.m. and collapse in a satisfied heap. I made it a point to never sleep on the couch.

That would send a message to my husband that I was out of control. And I wasn't. Uh-uh. Not at all.

All was well--dark circles under my eyes be damned--until one day the remote wouldn't respond. I went flying into the den and with trembling fingers handed it to my husband. "What's wrong?" I asked, fearful that my beloved clicker; my portal to the world housewives gone made and bakeries that needed saving, might be broken.

"Nothing's wrong, you're just full. You have to delete some shows."

"Delete some shows?" I shook my head in utter disbelief. "No, no, I can't do that."

He turned from his computer screen, and with an apparent new insight took in the total package of his DVR-addicted wife. "Calm down," he said. "Simply get rid of some of the older ones you've already seen."

"Can't you call the cable company and buy more space?"

He raised his eyebrows.

I tried to blackmail him. "If you loved me, you'd do it."

Stunning me with his brutal look of dismissal, he slapped the remote in my hand and in a tough-love gesture pointed to the door. "Just go do it."

I spend an agonizing hour flipping through the list, trying to decide what shows to kill. That's what it felt like: murder.

My blood pressure spoke to me, pounding an alarm in my head. Maybe the DVR should come with a warning from the Surgeon General.

My husband, the traitor, came and stood behind me. "What about the show where those people hoard everything?"

I gasped.

"Okay, how about the lady that rescues all those cats?"

"No, not her," I cried.

"Do you want me to do it for you?" he whispered seductively in my ear.

I clutched the remote to my chest. "Don't you touch this," I growled.

He backed up with his hands in the air. "Okay, then I'm off to bed to read."

I finally settled n removing the movies with the happy thought that I can always buy the DVDs.

I needed an intervention.

A few days later at breakfast, I plopped the remote in the middle of the table and, with a determined tight-lipped gesture, told my husband to delete all the shows but this week's lineup. I glared at him, secretly ashamed that I had been hiding the remote in my underwear drawer for a few days so he wouldn't mess with it.

When I got home from shopping, to my horror I found that he had deleted everything.

"Everything?" I gasped. My world tilted at a dangerous pitch.

"I could tell that's what you really wanted," he said. When I started rushing towards him in what some might perceive as a menacing fashion he quickly added, "What you really needed."

Before he could escape. I flung my arms around his neck and didn't let go for a full minute. "You saved me. You're my hero," I whispered.

I'm still in step 2--recovery--or as I call it: deep resentment. But I'm working it one day at a time.

My girlfriend told me about a game she plays online. Something called Candy Crush. I think I'll try it. It's just a game, so that probably safe, right?
By Jody Lebel br br Hi, my name is Jody, and I'm ... (show quote)

Funny, I just went through mine and deleted out a bunch of stuff I knew I would never get to--all so I could have more space to record more stuff that I will never be able to get to. Now where do I go to sign up for the program??

Reply
 
 
Nov 16, 2019 19:08:15   #
bilordinary Loc: SW Washington
 
Admission is the first step to recovery.
I have trouble throwing things away!

Reply
Nov 16, 2019 20:27:54   #
bggamers Loc: georgia
 
PeterS wrote:
Funny, I just went through mine and deleted out a bunch of stuff I knew I would never get to--all so I could have more space to record more stuff that I will never be able to get to. Now where do I go to sign up for the program??



Reply
Nov 16, 2019 21:16:50   #
no propaganda please Loc: moon orbiting the third rock from the sun
 
bggamers wrote:
Sure cure fire the company that supplies the DVR that's what I did because I worked 3rd shift Id come home spend to much time watching my shows wasnt getting enough sleep This way is called COLD TURKEY harsh but it works I truley understand the writers dilemma
Sure cure fire the company that supplies the DVR t... (show quote)


Just another reason we don't have tv service.

Reply
Nov 17, 2019 10:44:21   #
bahmer
 
slatten49 wrote:
By Jody Lebel

Hi, my name is Jody, and I'm a DVR junkie. It's okay, I'm in a program now.

It started innocently enough. My favorite chef show was on the same night that my granddaughter had a school function. I asked my husband to take my place so I could see my show.

"Why don't you set the DVR," he suggested.

"I don't know how to do that," I admitted. I'm no rocket scientist.

"I'll show you how. It's easy," he said. "Do you want just tonight's show or all the episodes?"

Did he say all the episodes? My mind did a little happy dance. "Yes, all of them," I opted, a little breathily.

He was right. It was easy. Later that night when the house was still, I got to watch my show. Then next week there was a movie I want to catch but it didn't air until the wee hours of the morning. With a few clicks, it became mine.

Then came the episodes where people live in a house all summer--it's on every blessed day. I quickly figured out how to fast forward through the commercials, a powerful moment indeed.

My fingers flew over the resume, start over and save keys. Everything but delete.

I found myself eyeing the clock around the dinner hour, anxious for my time to begin. Most nights I'd trudge to the bedroom around 4 a.m. and collapse in a satisfied heap. I made it a point to never sleep on the couch.

That would send a message to my husband that I was out of control. And I wasn't. Uh-uh. Not at all.

All was well--dark circles under my eyes be damned--until one day the remote wouldn't respond. I went flying into the den and with trembling fingers handed it to my husband. "What's wrong?" I asked, fearful that my beloved clicker; my portal to the world housewives gone made and bakeries that needed saving, might be broken.

"Nothing's wrong, you're just full. You have to delete some shows."

"Delete some shows?" I shook my head in utter disbelief. "No, no, I can't do that."

He turned from his computer screen, and with an apparent new insight took in the total package of his DVR-addicted wife. "Calm down," he said. "Simply get rid of some of the older ones you've already seen."

"Can't you call the cable company and buy more space?"

He raised his eyebrows.

I tried to blackmail him. "If you loved me, you'd do it."

Stunning me with his brutal look of dismissal, he slapped the remote in my hand and in a tough-love gesture pointed to the door. "Just go do it."

I spend an agonizing hour flipping through the list, trying to decide what shows to kill. That's what it felt like: murder.

My blood pressure spoke to me, pounding an alarm in my head. Maybe the DVR should come with a warning from the Surgeon General.

My husband, the traitor, came and stood behind me. "What about the show where those people hoard everything?"

I gasped.

"Okay, how about the lady that rescues all those cats?"

"No, not her," I cried.

"Do you want me to do it for you?" he whispered seductively in my ear.

I clutched the remote to my chest. "Don't you touch this," I growled.

He backed up with his hands in the air. "Okay, then I'm off to bed to read."

I finally settled n removing the movies with the happy thought that I can always buy the DVDs.

I needed an intervention.

A few days later at breakfast, I plopped the remote in the middle of the table and, with a determined tight-lipped gesture, told my husband to delete all the shows but this week's lineup. I glared at him, secretly ashamed that I had been hiding the remote in my underwear drawer for a few days so he wouldn't mess with it.

When I got home from shopping, to my horror I found that he had deleted everything.

"Everything?" I gasped. My world tilted at a dangerous pitch.

"I could tell that's what you really wanted," he said. When I started rushing towards him in what some might perceive as a menacing fashion he quickly added, "What you really needed."

Before he could escape. I flung my arms around his neck and didn't let go for a full minute. "You saved me. You're my hero," I whispered.

I'm still in step 2--recovery--or as I call it: deep resentment. But I'm working it one day at a time.

My girlfriend told me about a game she plays online. Something called Candy Crush. I think I'll try it. It's just a game, so that probably safe, right?
By Jody Lebel br br Hi, my name is Jody, and I'm ... (show quote)


Good one Slatten thanks for the laughs. You are filling in good for badbobby thanks.

Reply
 
 
Nov 17, 2019 11:10:34   #
slatten49 Loc: Lake Whitney, Texas
 
no propaganda please wrote:
Just another reason we don't have tv service.

Hey, why would you have TV when you have each other

Reply
Nov 17, 2019 11:51:17   #
no propaganda please Loc: moon orbiting the third rock from the sun
 
slatten49 wrote:
Hey, why would you have TV when you have each other


You are right there. We have a number of dogs, "our boys" many of them now grown up with children of their own, and each other. How much more entertainment do we really need?

Reply
Nov 17, 2019 11:56:43   #
slatten49 Loc: Lake Whitney, Texas
 
no propaganda please wrote:
You are right there. We have a number of dogs, "our boys" many of them now grown up with children of their own, and each other. How much more entertainment do we really need?

A better question: How much "entertainment" can NPP handle from the charming and vivacious SWMBO

Reply
Nov 17, 2019 12:34:24   #
Wonttakeitanymore
 
slatten49 wrote:
By Jody Lebel

Hi, my name is Jody, and I'm a DVR junkie. It's okay, I'm in a program now.

It started innocently enough. My favorite chef show was on the same night that my granddaughter had a school function. I asked my husband to take my place so I could see my show.

"Why don't you set the DVR," he suggested.

"I don't know how to do that," I admitted. I'm no rocket scientist.

"I'll show you how. It's easy," he said. "Do you want just tonight's show or all the episodes?"

Did he say all the episodes? My mind did a little happy dance. "Yes, all of them," I opted, a little breathily.

He was right. It was easy. Later that night when the house was still, I got to watch my show. Then next week there was a movie I want to catch but it didn't air until the wee hours of the morning. With a few clicks, it became mine.

Then came the episodes where people live in a house all summer--it's on every blessed day. I quickly figured out how to fast forward through the commercials, a powerful moment indeed.

My fingers flew over the resume, start over and save keys. Everything but delete.

I found myself eyeing the clock around the dinner hour, anxious for my time to begin. Most nights I'd trudge to the bedroom around 4 a.m. and collapse in a satisfied heap. I made it a point to never sleep on the couch.

That would send a message to my husband that I was out of control. And I wasn't. Uh-uh. Not at all.

All was well--dark circles under my eyes be damned--until one day the remote wouldn't respond. I went flying into the den and with trembling fingers handed it to my husband. "What's wrong?" I asked, fearful that my beloved clicker; my portal to the world housewives gone made and bakeries that needed saving, might be broken.

"Nothing's wrong, you're just full. You have to delete some shows."

"Delete some shows?" I shook my head in utter disbelief. "No, no, I can't do that."

He turned from his computer screen, and with an apparent new insight took in the total package of his DVR-addicted wife. "Calm down," he said. "Simply get rid of some of the older ones you've already seen."

"Can't you call the cable company and buy more space?"

He raised his eyebrows.

I tried to blackmail him. "If you loved me, you'd do it."

Stunning me with his brutal look of dismissal, he slapped the remote in my hand and in a tough-love gesture pointed to the door. "Just go do it."

I spend an agonizing hour flipping through the list, trying to decide what shows to kill. That's what it felt like: murder.

My blood pressure spoke to me, pounding an alarm in my head. Maybe the DVR should come with a warning from the Surgeon General.

My husband, the traitor, came and stood behind me. "What about the show where those people hoard everything?"

I gasped.

"Okay, how about the lady that rescues all those cats?"

"No, not her," I cried.

"Do you want me to do it for you?" he whispered seductively in my ear.

I clutched the remote to my chest. "Don't you touch this," I growled.

He backed up with his hands in the air. "Okay, then I'm off to bed to read."

I finally settled n removing the movies with the happy thought that I can always buy the DVDs.

I needed an intervention.

A few days later at breakfast, I plopped the remote in the middle of the table and, with a determined tight-lipped gesture, told my husband to delete all the shows but this week's lineup. I glared at him, secretly ashamed that I had been hiding the remote in my underwear drawer for a few days so he wouldn't mess with it.

When I got home from shopping, to my horror I found that he had deleted everything.

"Everything?" I gasped. My world tilted at a dangerous pitch.

"I could tell that's what you really wanted," he said. When I started rushing towards him in what some might perceive as a menacing fashion he quickly added, "What you really needed."

Before he could escape. I flung my arms around his neck and didn't let go for a full minute. "You saved me. You're my hero," I whispered.

I'm still in step 2--recovery--or as I call it: deep resentment. But I'm working it one day at a time.

My girlfriend told me about a game she plays online. Something called Candy Crush. I think I'll try it. It's just a game, so that probably safe, right?
By Jody Lebel br br Hi, my name is Jody, and I'm ... (show quote)


This is a funny way of showing obsession and all that it encompasses! Should be used for many addictions! Thank you for sharing! Been there!!!!

Reply
 
 
Nov 17, 2019 12:35:23   #
Wonttakeitanymore
 
bilordinary wrote:
Admission is the first step to recovery.
I have trouble throwing things away!


Me too! Repurpose shows should be recorded!! Lol

Reply
Nov 17, 2019 13:06:33   #
no propaganda please Loc: moon orbiting the third rock from the sun
 
slatten49 wrote:
A better question: How much "entertainment" can NPP handle from the charming and vivacious SWMBO


You have no idea how "entertaining" I can be. Just don't ask me to sing. Even the dogs dash out of the room when ever I attempt that endevour!

SWMBO

Reply
Nov 17, 2019 13:14:51   #
slatten49 Loc: Lake Whitney, Texas
 
no propaganda please wrote:
You have no idea how "entertaining" I can be. Just don't ask me to sing. Even the dogs dash out of the room when ever I attempt that endevour!

SWMBO

Perhaps, instead of blaming yourself, you could assume they spotted a rabbit outside.

Reply
Nov 17, 2019 13:31:56   #
no propaganda please Loc: moon orbiting the third rock from the sun
 
slatten49 wrote:
Perhaps, instead of blaming yourself, you could assume they spotted a rabbit outside.


I stopped lying to myself YEARS ago. And we have NO spotted rabbits around here

Reply
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