Boob Tube

In our hotel room here in Prescott, AZ, we have two televisions. Two. Why they would ever think that two televisions are necessary in a room smaller than my kitchen is beyond me. We've been stuck here for four days and Scott doesn't want to drive the rental car because he's afraid that the wheels are going to fall off (which is not an unfounded fear, let me tell you - we actually stopped between Tusayan and Prescott to have the front tires put on the back just in case they decided to blow up in the middle of the highway); Erin doesn't want to leave the hotel room because, well, she's twelve, and there are TWO TELEVISIONS, for the love of God. Oak Creek Canyon is just down the road, and a ghost-town called Jerome, as well as the gimp zoo, and a whole slew of museums. But, no. We must stay here. With the televisions.

I've tried to hide from them. I tried taking a long bath, because the bathtub in this hotel is not scary like the one at the Red Feather *shudder*, but the tub here is very shallow and once I've gotten into a comfortable position, I'm mostly just soaking my butt while everything else freezes. I've tried to ignore it. I've tried reading my book under a pillow. Nothing works.

Erin has watched the same episode of The Penguins of Madagascar at least six times in the last three days. Also Sponge Bob and Homeward Bound (with the talking dogs), in addition to a bunch of ultra-snotty teeny-bopper shows on Nick. And Scott, my wonderful husband who I thought would be immune to its evil snare, must have the television on. Today he is watching golf. GOLF. There is no love for golf in our home. None of us have ever played golf, or will ever play golf, or watch golf, or read about golf, or care about golf. When I asked why in the hell he was watching golf, Scott said: "But there's nothing else on."

So, um, turn it off?