Dad killed the TV.
How do I know it was murdered? Because it won’t turn on.
How do I know Dad was the murderer? Because when I fell asleep last night, the TV was happily spewing light and sound in the form of Burn Notice reruns. When I awoke it was off. When I tried to turn it on, all I got was Blank Screen. Since Booker’s not allowed upstairs, it must be Dad’s fault.
I would have made a fantastic forensic scientist.
Bottom line: We are—at least temporarily—a one TV household.
And this one-ness is causing stress and strain. Because there are those of us who would prefer to watch hockey playoffs and those of us who would prefer to watch The Royals. Those of us who would prefer to watch endless games of hockey and those of us who would prefer to watch NCIS. Those of us who would prefer to remain glued to the TV for any snippet of hockey-ness and those of us who would prefer to watch Almost Anything Else.
And right now those Thoses and the these Thoses can’t both have their way.
(If you’re going to mention DVR-ing or watching on computers, forget it. We’re old, I work on the computer while I watch TV, and I’m of the I-want-to-watch-it-now-not-later contingent.)
Bottom line: We are going to acquire a new TV.
Before you freak out, let me assure you it will not be nearly as studly as the one in the family room. On the other hand it will not be as archaic as the dead one.
I will be the one selecting the TV. Which means it will be pretty. And it will be what I want.
And it will probably be sitting in a box waiting for you to hook it up when you get home from school.
Except that Dad came upstairs and reset the cable box–and the dead TV came back to life.
I feel pretty stupid for not having thought of that.
And I don’t get to buy a new TV.