There’s a certain morning routine I follow as soon as my feet hit the kitchen/family room floor. Turn on the TV and laptop, put on the coffee, take prescription meds, followed by those over-the-counter, followed by vitamins B-12 and D, plus fish oil. Then downstairs with the laptop where I turn on the second TV, situate my laptop onto the draft table, climb on the exercise bike, slide the draft table to straddle the exercise bike, so I can start pedaling, backwards and forwards, all while checking my email and favorite writer’s sites with one eye and one ear tuned to Imus in the Morning.

The I-Man, otherwise known as Don Imus, my go-to guy for irreverent humor, both sides of the political arena, commentary on pop culture and news worthy events, plus professional sports which always lean to the East Coast since he usually broadcasts from New York, unless it’s summertime in which case he broadcasts in New Mexico from his Imus Ranch for Kids with Cancer. The whiney, self-effacing Imus has a cast of characters I look forward to hearing from, Monday through Friday, as well as The Best of Imus over the weekends.

Let’s see, there’s Rob Bartlett with his take on The Godfather or Fat Elvis or Megan McDowell, make-believe evil sister of Fox Business analyst Dagan McDowell. Tony Powell spoofs black politicians and entertainers better than most. Mustn’t forget Warner Wolf, he does the sports. Connell McShane reports the news, and Bernard McGuirk always has something profound to say, even when it occasionally ruffles my feathers.

My favorite segments would have to be the Thursday Mensa Meeting whose current regulars include Alan Colmes, Bernard McGuirk, and Deidre Imus, the much younger, highly opinionated and by far more attractive mate to husband, I-Man. And on Wednesdays my really, really favorite: Blonde on Blonde, again with philanthropist and health activist Deidre Imus but this time going against lawyer and professed fast-food frequenter Lis Wiehl. Such fun and so enlightening: these two women who for the most part take opposing views on controversial topics of the week.

All of which leads me to this past Wednesday morning, a morning that started just like any other Wednesday morning. As soon as my feet hit the kitchen/family room floor, I switched on the TV remote. And what did I get? Nothing, you heard me, nothing. Hey, no biggie. I’d been there before, in fact several mornings before. I went through the recommended routine of press and hold the remote power button to reset the TV. Only the recommended routine didn’t work this time. Or the next four times I repeated the process. Unplugging the TV and cable box didn’t correct the problem. Nor did a phone call to the cable company whose agent checked out everything from her end before saying those words no self-respecting owner of a non-responding TV wants to hear.

“How long ago did you purchase this piece of crap?” the agent asked.

Okay, she may not have used those exact words but we both knew what she meant. As did Hubby D since he was on the extension.

After a spirited discussion between D and me over what may or may not have been happening in our lives to coincide with the purchase date of said TV, we mumbled something about eight years ago.

“In that case I’ve afraid you will need a new TV,” the cable gal said in a voice showing no remorse whatsoever.

After our conversation with the cable company ended, D who has no time for product research or comparison shopping was practically out the door and into the car. “Not so fast,” I told him. “It’s not like we have to get a new TV this very minute.”

No, we did not. Instead, we waited until late afternoon, when the sun was getting lower and lower on the horizon, signaling the approaching evening and my creature-of-habit TV programs, which are pre-recorded to enable me to fast forward through the commercials don’t always agree with D’s creature-of-habit programs, which make little sense due to his compulsive A.D.D. channel hopping. Only when the sun truly set did we panic and hurry out to make that unnecessary yet irresistible purchase, knowing full well whatever TV we’d buy could wind up as part of the Black Friday sale. Or Thanksgiving Day—I draw the line on tackling that monstrous event.

Indeed, we are creatures of habit but only to a point. This new flat-screen gem weighs about 12 pounds whereas the humongous one D and I dragged from the family room down a mere four steps to the attached garage must’ve weighed at least forty pounds. Anyone for spare parts, take the whole TV and they’re yours. No? I didn’t think so.

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