Angry Bird

The TV died. Just plain wore out after hours and hours of XBox. The new one Shawn wants has too many zeros in it for this month's budget, so our only hope is to fix the old one. Sans a minivan or friend with a truck, we actually removed the back seat from my car and hauled the 50" beast out of my manicured, grassy bubble down to 19th Ave and put it down inside the front door of the store. The place looked like a room on the show Hoarders (I watched it once - scary) with one narrow, tall, black, electronic maze twisting from room to room. Old Mrs. Hoarder greeted us with a cheery smile. And veins. Lots of veins. Big veins popping out all over her leathery arms and legs, clearly visible when one is under a hundred pounds and wears shorts and a tank top (a fashion don't for anybody over 50). While extremely helpful, she had that I've been drinking and tanning all day, every day, for years look about her. She said that we'll know something later today. A diagnosis. But since I'm heading West and Shana's gone South for the weekend, leaving Shawn all alone with only Angry Birds to play with on his phone, I'm worried.  So, let's go Mr. and Mrs. Hoarder. Tinker. Put down the wine and tinker. Please. Or I may need the number of a 12-step program for XBoxers.