The jet-lagged SJG came home to an angry DVR. I couldn't wait to sit my tush down and watch all the shows I missed while gallivanting around NYC, looking chic and adorable. I couldn't wait for a marathon of "Mad Men" and "The Killing," "How I Met Your Mother" and "Modern Family." Turns out, my DVR is my doppelganger. It gives and gives and all it asks for in return is a little respect and appreciation. A simple thank you now and then. Much like the SJG, when taken for granted, my DVR lays on the guilt and refuses to cooperate. I understand this, I really do. I come from a long line of people who invented this technique. Still, effn' up my beloved programming, DVR? Not okay. I gotta draw the line and send you back to therapy. Or, at the very least, trade you in for a younger DVR that doesn't run on bitterness alone. A dozen roses, a nice box of candy, a two-hour Swedish massage, won't bring back the last half of "Mad Men" you denied me in my stupor. A fancy restaurant, a shopping spree, won't make up for what happened mid-way through "The Killing." Bupkis. That's what happened. And then I had to start over and reprogram you, while steeped in my heavy travel fog, and quite frankly, DVR, I didn't have enough brain cells to pull it off. I'm scared to look at you this morning. You want me to apologize? Fine. I'm sorry I didn't bring you a gift from the Big Apple, DVR, but I thought you had everything you wanted in life. Plus, they don't make I Heart Manhattan t-shirts in your size. Next time I go away, I promise, I'll bring you something. A piping hot knish. A giant pretzel. Whatever you want. From now on, DVR, I won't take you for granted. I'll remember to thank you for all your hard work and dedication, and for all the joy you've brought me over the years. That said, DVR, if you don't get your sh*t together and bring me the second half of "Men Man," if you don't tell me whether that guy lying half dead up against a tree on "The Killing" survives the episode, I will never forgive you. Never. You see what I did there? Guilt works both ways. My DVR. Myself. We're one and the same.