Last night, while I was feverishly typing away in bed, Chris decided to watch a TiVo'd episode of 30 Rock to ease him into sleep.

Sometime later, the episode finished, Chris zonked out, and I continued to type in the midst of silence with Milo the cat cozily attached to my elevated calf.

Sometime after that, loud, bright fireworks of Spanish dialogue burst from our bedroom TV, filling our bedroom with chaos.

"What the hell is that?" Chris asked.

It was a Univision commercial. 

"It's a commercial, babe."

An unattended finale of an episode of 30 Rock or other show or film eventually exploded into frightening live TV chatter.  It's what happened whenever TiVo felt ignored or neglected.  The digital recorder was vengeful.   Entirely capable of waking an innocent viewer from a sound sleep with a too-passionate sales pitch from "Ingles Sin Barreras" or, worse, a paid-advertisement hosted by Billy Mays.

The dialogue continued.

"What?  What is that?"

"Babe, it's a commercial.  On Univision."

This commotion was partially my fault for tuning into Univision earlier.  And, em, remaining there. 

"What is it?"
 
"A commercial, hon," I said, walking over to the television.  "You were watching 30 Rock and then it finished..."

And then TiVo made my unsuspecting husband fall victim to its fiery volume wrath as it transitioned to "live TV" mode. 

Impatient asshole-contraption.

I shut the television off and watched as Chris drifted right back into peace.

No one-- er, nothing messes with my husband.