My first rant

One's first blogrant has got to be special. It needs to have dramatic elements, like love and hate and betrayal and violence and illicit drug use.

My first rant will be about my DVR.

Dear DVR,

I love you, because you record my shows. I hate you because you think you're better than me. Why do you call me names? Why do you decide what I will and will not watch? This is not about Point Pleasant, you know. It's a stupid show. I don't need you to tell me that. This is about my freedom in this relationship. I know we've gotten close over the time we've been together, but this is still and employer/employee relationship, and you're not treating me with the respect I deserve. Whatever you think of me personally, I can watch whatever I damn well want to watch and you're here to facilitate that. Period. And what, pray tell, could you possibly have against Good Eats? Because if you don't like Alton, we have a much more serious problem.

I want you to think about this while I cool off, and we'll talk about it when I get home.

Love,
Liz

I think it was Dr. Pickle who came up with the groundbreaking theraputic technique of writing letters to the inanimate objects in your life. Thank you, doctor, I really do feel better.

So anyway, I was drugged. Well, self-medicated. But that didn't have anything to do with it, okay? Just because ONE Tylenol PM can knock me on my ass doesn't mean that I can't operate heavy machinery, such as my DVR. The little red light was ON, people. I saw it piercing through the haze of struggling eyelids, reassuring me that everything was going to be okay. But it wasn't okay. My trusted companion was lying to me. This morning I looked for my show and it's just. Not. There.

I knew something was up last night when I set the show to record, like I've done a million times before, and as always, my DVR said, "Okay, sure thing!" Then the time came that the show came on, and I sat down to watch it. About two minutes into the peculiarly long establishing scene, I realized that the Little Red Light of Peace wasn't on. Okay, no big deal. I haven't missed much. I'll just press the record button.

DVR: "By pressing record, you're asking me to disregard the timer you set."
Me: "Well, that makes two of us."

Record.

Little Red Light.

Peace.

Oblivion.

I fell asleep. I was trying to avoid one of those head-cracking knife-behind-the-eye headaches I get sometimes. Usually, the only way to do that is to sleep through it via artificial means. Fortunately, my drug tolerance is so incredibly low that usually all I have to do is take a couple of Tylenol PMs. They don't do a damn thing for the headache of course. But they do the job of a brick to the back of the head, without the messy concussion. I had decided that the escalation of my headache to migraine status was still a 50/50 possibility, and it was early, so I just took one Tylenol PM. Turns out that was enough. Ask Chris. He practically had to carry me to bed when he got home, and I couldn't form a coherent word to save my life.

Off topic. Long story short, I trusted that bitch. I went to sleep because I knew the second half of my show was safely nestled in the archives of the wunderkind technology in my living room. This morning, my show, along with two of Chris's eps of Good Eats, were nowhere to be found. All I have to say is, Little Miss Smarty Pants DVR better cough them up, or she has about seven hours to live.

So, that is my story of love, hate, betrayal, violence and illicit drug use. So, the drugs weren't illicit. They should be. You should see what they do to me. And there was no violence, yet. But there is violence in my heart.