I want to start reading again. Well, I should correct that, I want to start reading books again that don’t involve how-to on baby: whether it’s making, baking, caring, or rearing. Granted, there’s not much time to read what with the business of keeping Lil Z alive and thriving and all, but I would like something better to do on my train ride to work than stare into space. It gets rather boring, and sometimes while staring into space I accidentally make eye contact with a fellow train rider. A big no-no for commuters in any urban area. Read the commuting handbook and you’ll find out it is true.
I also want to get a library card. And probably also find out where the library is located. Because as much as I love Barnes and Noble where the air is permeated with the smell of paper and caramel lattes, it gets expensive to buy books. Just recently I bought a handful of children’s books to read to Lil Z-Bear, the total: $97.85 for 4 books. Ouch! Good Night Moon indeed.
The books that I do own are proudly displayed on our bookshelf in the hallway; it makes people who visit us think we are smart (we are, in case you were wondering). I make sure that the books that make us look even smarter are at eye level: that’s where I keep my Tolstoys, Gogols, and Nabokovs, Austens and Dickens, Steinbecks and Hemingways. I also throw in hubby’s old Anatomy of the Human Body and various other medical books with scary titles to keep things interesting. On the lower shelf, I keep my collection of South Asian writers, my collection of David Sedaris, my collection of travel books, and some selected chick lit books. Hidden from all eyes to see in a box somewhere in a closet is my collection of romance novels. Yes, the ones with the embarrassing graphics of dashing rakes and brazen maidens. Because we all have our vices.