A Letter of Apology to Our Plasma Screen

Dear 55-inch plasma screen television,

I remember the day you were delivered to our house. Hubs and I burst with pride watching you. You played shows like Weeds and True Blood with a clarity yet to be seen. We were smitten (or hypnotized, hard to tell which).

We marveled at your brightness, the way you would cheerily beep when we turned you on and off, as if saying hello and goodbye. At 55 inches, you were a big girl. I could watch you just as easily while doing the dishes from the kitchen.

When we got you, our son was a mere two months old, a smiling blob that couldn't move. You know all too well now though, that the blob would grow.

And grow he did. He grew to a little boy who terrorized our house, breaking things. But we didn't think it would come to this. We are so sorry.

You see, dear 55 inch plasma screen television, we had no way of knowing he would take his toy golf club and hit you in the face as hard as he could. We had no way of knowing that your screen would shatter in two places. We had no idea the sorrow we would feel when we watched the light leave your screen.

Now, you are a beloved piece of trash that sits behind our love seat. We can't get rid of you and Matt is convinced that if we rub petroleum jelly on you it will fix you. (I wonder at times if he's on crack.) Our new tv just isn't the same, mostly because it's not as big.

Rest assured, Toph watched as I threw his golf clubs outside, proclaiming them to be outside toys forever and ever.  I also called the grandparents who gave him those golf clubs and placed the blame on his golf loving Poppy, who I thought would offer to pay for your repairs.  He just laughed instead and asked if I had learned a lesson.  He has nerve.

We loved you, 55 inch plasma screen television. We are sorry you met such a bitter end and we thank you for not electrocuting our son, as you very well could have.

Love,
the girl who sat and stared at you for extended periods of time, usually with a laptop on her lap