I Want My MTV

I am resistant to technological change. My cell phone is not Smart. My Netflix DVDs are delivered by a kindly mail person driving a USPS truck. My nephews (11 and 9) explained the difference between a DS and XBox, and I pretended to understand what they were describing. My Facebook page is not a timeline, and I am frightened of Twittering (or is it Tweeting?). But as my family grows in number, and grows out of clothes, and grows hearty in food appetites and extracurricular activities, I grow in my quest for saving a buck.

So I made a big leap. I decided to “bundle” our package. Cable, internet, and our home phone would now be conveniently under one discounted mass media umbrella. And this would somehow magically increase our television channels from 6 to 8 billion and six.

The Cable Guy arrived at our house one post-preschool afternoon. Heath and Stella were cozied up for an hour of decompression that includes snuggling up with their Lovies (matted, cataract-eyed, noseless stuffed Puppy, and well-worn fleecey Beanky, for her), a snack, and some PBS Kids adventures. When the screen went blank, Mr. Cable was met with shrieks of dismay and howls of protest. He did his best to explain the process and tried to mesmerize them with promising tales of deep-sea Sponges that talked and little boys who go on amazing animal adventures.

“All appropriate for their age,” he reassured me, nodding to my four month old, Forest, perched on my hip.

Thing One and Thing Two weren’t buying what he was selling and continued to shoot him surly, furrowed brows between shouting muffled pleas to stop into their Lovies. According to them, this man had come to ruin their lives. I smiled at Cable Dude, silently hoping Stella would not call him a Penis Head, her latest pet name for strangers in Trader Joe’s who dare to come close for some aren’t you just the cutest doting.

And with the flip of a switch (modem, I suppose, for the technically savvy), PBS was replaced by Nick Jr. As if she was sprung to life from the pages of our books, there was our household’s favorite gregarious pig, Olivia. Looks of horror and disbelief melted from their little faces. Angry wailings fell silent. Pupils dilated; mouths dropped agape.

Mr. Technology began his tutorial on the magic that is DVRing, while I feigned listening, distracted by my own noisy thoughts. What have I done?! I’ve ruined my children!

“…and ESPN channels begin here,” he continued. I snapped back to attention long enough to make note of not mentioning the ESPN channels to my husband, Mark, for fear I would surely lose my get-the-kids dinner/bath/bedtime sidekick forever.

Heath woke up the following morning with big plans to not go to preschool so he could stay home and watch the new channels all day. “Sound like a plan?” he asked.

I remained non-committal. Sure enough the “problem” resolved itself after twenty minutes of Little Bear. He was ready to see what his friends at school were doing.

Not much has changed. Turns out I had to call back and get them to add voice mail for an additional charge. Out of 10,000 channels to choose from, Mark complains that I still manage to watch multiple episodes of House that were already available before we brought the media conglomerate into our lives, and Mark discovered the forbidden sport channels, yet we are still partners in parenting.

I did happen upon a few minutes of Jersey Shore and saw Snooki for the first time. I only know her from Bobby Moynihan’s impersonation on SNL, but here she was, live and in the flesh.

As she readied herself for a night on the town, she mused to her friends, I’m wearing two pair o’ underpants, ‘case I piss myself like I did last night. I got the thong on with booty pants over them.

I relayed this important information to my husband, who said he was going to throw up if I didn’t change the channel. We both came away with the same question: what are booty pants?

There’s something to be said for being out of the loop. Of course, now I know what to wear next time I plan to pee on myself.