Wednesday, February 26, 2014


My mother visited the other week and this was the conversation:

Melinda: Where did you get this book?
Me (not looking at her because I was picking something up): You gave it to me.  I only read books that you give me.
Melinda: I don't think I gave this to you.
Me: Where did you find it?
Melinda: On your bookshelf.
Me: You had to have given it to me.

Time passes and I walk by my mom reading this book:

Me: Oh, (laughing).  Ellen (my Mother-In-Law) bought that for me and left it on my nightstand because I had never read anything from Ann Patchett before.
Melinda: I knew this wasn't my book!

My mom read it.  So then I read it.  What is with me?  It is so weird, I seem to only read books that my mother introduces to me (now adding a Mother-In-Law into this equation).

I don't know who to blame for this?  Which motherly figure gets the blame for putting me through that book.  I hate fiction.  I hate fiction because it is really hard to suspend disbelief in the beginning and then, when I am attached to these damn characters, I find myself sobbing on the toilet while reading it.  That isn't nice.  I don't like sobbing through books.  You guys are so damn pulled together.  You have to remember that I am a sensitive soul and can't manage myself through these types of reads.

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