For ten years, C and I have had the same argument about TVs. He always thinks we need a bigger one and another in the bedroom. I've always said that if we wanted to live in a movie theatre, we would probably pay less rent. He's slowly upgraded our one, in the living room TV from my tiny TV/VCR combo, to a hand-me-down 20-something inch, to the "BIG" purchase of a flat screen when Eli was born (aka our first child tax credit). But I've managed so far to keep it from a) being ridiculous and b) moving a television into the bedroom.
Fast forward to our most recent adventure. Driving back from Prison City, again, and C is going on and on about how he wants the new house set up, how the kids' toys will finally be kept in place since he'll be home (oh, the underlying message there just kills me, but choose your battles and so on), and how we're going to "need a better TV." I couldn't handle it, too much talking and arguing and debating and on and on and on, so like any stressed out woman I passive-aggressively said, "You know what? I don't care. Do whatever you want. I'm just tired of talking about it." Yep, this'll teach me. Behold.