I spent probably six hours one Saturday watching something I didn’t really to watch.

“Can I turn it?” my husband asked.

“Sure,” I said. “If you can find the remote.”

“What?”

“Can’t find the remote. That’s why I have sat here and watched 12 episodes of The Golden Girls back to back.”

Don’t get me wrong; I love me some Blanche Deveraux but six hours is a lot for one gal to take.

But not being able to find one – just one – remote in this house can lead to a host of television horrors.

“Which one?” he asked.

“All of ‘em.”

If one can create an issue, all four can be even more problematic.

And this one TV has at least four various remotes.

There is the Dish remote, which can also turn on the TV and of course, change the channel.

It actually has a really neat little feature where you can push a button on the receiver and it will locate the missing remote.

Unless it is buried in the depths of a chair or couch which apparently has the strength to block the signal. Or, had somehow been lost in a pile of laundry in the basket and then said basket is scooted into another room.

Then there is the remote that goes with the television.

To be kind of blah compared to the Dish one, this little remote is kind of the grand poobah of remotes.

This single remote allows us to switch between the satellite, the Roku, the DVD player and even the antiquated VHS player that desperately needs to be cleaned.

However, this remote will no longer change the channel on the TV. Without it, we can’t watch anything but TV.

And I am not a big fan of TV.

The remote for the Roku was dropped one too many times and no longer works, so we have to use the app on my phone.

The DVD player has a separate remote. In fact, I think we have two since we had saved the one from the previous DVD player when it died.

I have no idea where the VHS remote is; it may not have even had one since it is 18 years old. It was made back in the days of big buttons clearly labeled with their function of “rewind” or “fast-forward.”

How we lose them is beyond me.

I have tried to corral them all in one little wooden tray on the coffee table.

That lasts about five minutes.

I have found remotes besides cereal boxes, in the freezer, in the bathroom.

I desperately want to know why this happens.

How does one pick up the remote and leave it in another room? More importantly, why does one take the remote with them when they leave the room?

“You are just so scared I am going to turn it from whatever you’re watching that you are a remote wanderer,” I accuse.

This is denied.

It’s the truth though; he turns the channel on me if I turn my back so he naturally thinks I will turn it from his “Ancient Aliens” marathon. And I would, too.

My child has never lived in a remote-less world. Even the air conditioner has a remote.

He finds it hard to believe that I grew up in a world of rabbit ears wrapped in tin foil and having to actually get up and change the channel.

“And you had to stand there and continuing turning it until you found something everyone wanted to watch,” I told him.

I am not sure he believed me. He was more fascinated by the foil wrapped antennae.

“Once, the knob fell off and the only way we could get it to turn the channel was to stick a knife in it,” I told him. “It was hillbilly engineering at its best.”

“A knife? Who came up with that idea?” he asked.

“Me, of course,” I said. Nennie suggested tweezers; for some reason, that woman thinks tweezers can do everything that Murphy’s Oil can’t do.

My child was not impressed. He was busy looking for the grand poobah remote and of course, it was nowhere to be found.

We looked for 20 minutes.

We watched Netflix for four days.

“I think we accidentally threw it away,” Cole pondered.

“It’s here somewhere,” I said. “We just haven’t opened the right drawer yet or found the right laundry basket.”

I had even searched the dryer. It was often a treasure trove of stuff I hadn’t seen in a while.

“Are we sure it is not in the chair?”

Cole said he had checked. But, I know that chair – that chair was able to hide things in its vast innards.

I reached my hand in between the cushions all the way to the bones of the chair and there, perched on the metal workings was the remote.

“Yay!” Cole exclaimed. “Now I can watch my show!”

He looked around.

“Where’s the Dish remote?” he asked.

And it never fails: the one that’s missing is the one we need.