Noah broke the TiVo.
No, that's not fair. I cannot even use the word "the" when talking about TiVo. TiVo is not a "the." TiVo is a member of the family. And Noah BROKE HIM.
So Noah pushed TiVo off our carefully-arranged Pile o' Electronic Crap, along with our printer, and there was a tremendous crash that roused me from my gin-soaked reverie on the couch, where I spend my days in a powder-blue kimono, plotting to seduce various millionaires while Noah scrubs the stairs, and then I perfected the Miss Hannigan tableau by shrieking at the top of my lungs because TIVO! TIIIIIVOOOOOOOOO! and then I dove over the entertainment unit to pull TiVo up into my loving arms, where I gently cradled him as I watched his green light flicker a few times before dying. In the end, it was peaceful. I like to think he didn't suffer.
(By the way, the extent of my coping skills involve emailing everybody I know in all caps and then calling Jason and demanding that he COME HOME, THIS INSTANT, OR WE ARE ALL GOING TO DIE.)
We called a few repair places and were told that TiVos just aren't worth fixing unless you can do it yourself. 17 different screwdrivers and one rant about the wasteful, throwaway society we live in later, we figured that we either needed to go buy a new screwdriver or a new TiVo.
The hardware store was closed. So.
The fact that I can now record TWO SHOWS AT ONCE does help soothe the pain of losing an entire season of Project Runway and about 17 reruns of House.
(WE'VE STILL GOT OUR PRIORITIES, PEOPLE.)
Noah is thinking about what he's done.
It's the urban equivalent to having a car up on cinderblocks on your front lawn, I think.
This, however, is just pure country, no matter where you live.