On the Pile

As if giving me a cold weren't enough, Santa also put himself into my bad graces by only getting me one book. ONE! And not even a gift certificate to a book store. I think Santa may be losing his touch (although the watermelon-pink cashmere sweater makes me want to give him a second chance).*

The only book under the tree: Marley and Me by John Grogan. I've only dipped into it a bit so far, but I'm already loving Rowen so much more.

With my bookless year only a few days away---and some time to kill at the airport---I took matters into my own hands: A Scent of Scandal by Carole Matthews and Making Mischief by Elizabeth Young (I really liked A Promising Man; less so A Girl's Best Friend). I also picked up the latest New Yorker (the international fiction issue).

And, as I do after each trip home, I carted back about a dozen books from the several hundred (not even exaggerating) that I have stored in the attic, basement, and closets of my parent's house.

Currently Reading: Behaving Like Adults by Anna Maxted. I've temporarily put aside Vernon God Little because it was requiring too much mental effort. But it's due back at the library next week, so . . .



*I really am grateful for any and all gifts that I receive. But I have a cold. And I am the biggest baby when I'm sick. I feel sorry for myself and take everything very personally and feel very put upon by the littlest things so I tend to whine. A lot. Especially when it's one of those fluish things where you feel crappy but look fine so no one is giving you any sympathy. Which is what I have now.