When we moved to America, we lived with Grandmother for about year. My lovely Grandmother and her hypnotizing TV. Brother and I were so captivated by everything on it, from the sitcoms to the commercials, that we never moved away from its shiny flickering screen. When we moved into our own house, my mother decided that we wouldn’t get a TV ever. We told her she was awful. We told her she was unfair. We told her she was the worst mother ever. And yet, she never gave in.
But she did do this for us, every weekend, she would walk down to the library with us and let us pick out as many books as we’d like. We’d wander home, hours later, our stacks of books balanced carefully in bags. Once home, we’d plant ourselves on the couch or chair or floor and disappear into a spooky forest or bloody murders scene or, in Brother’s case, useless facts about baseball players. It was a good time. When Mom was here a month ago, she reintroduced me to the library. For years now, I’ve been buying my books online to read on the Kindle. And buying books can get expensive and risky. You never know what you’re going to get and if it’ will be worth the price. Slowly, without really realizing it, I was weaning myself off the habit of reading at all. Buying books is like having dinner with a blind date; you have to stay and eat the meal no matter how much you hate him or what he says. Libraries are more like dating online, you can chat and see how you feel before making the commitment. Even once you decide to meet face to face, it’s just coffee and you can walk away whenever you feel you’ve seen enough, no harm, no foul. This is a long random babble to say this: thanks to Mom, my library addiction is up and running again. Only this time it’s gotten dangerous. I’m back to weekly visits with stacks of books coming home with me. Usually books by authors I’ve read before, usually caught by the title and then hooked by the blurb on the inside cover promising escape from reality in gruesome or unrealistically romantic ways. Last week, I found the first two books in a series written by a friend of a friend. “I’ll give it a try,” I thought. “It can’t be that bad. She’s on the NY best sellers list.” Yeah, right. I started reading Chelsea Cain's murder mystery series on Friday afternoon, sitting out by the fire pit in the shade of the trees. It’s good. It’s really, really good. SO good I got SO involved that I forgot to move when the sun moved and I sat there reading as the shade turned into the fiery sun… and I burned my boobs. Like such massive heat radiating off them, I probably could start a fire just by putting a match head right next to them. Like the spots where the straps from my tank top were are so white it looks like I'm wearing a shirt. Totally and completely scorched. Glowing. Which means this is a perfect time to go and have my six-month checkup mammogram on my right boob. Right?!? Because what is better treatment for your charred, over-cooked and tender boob? Squishing it between two large metal objects while you hold your arms in awkward positions. Better yet, have some woman you've just met do the squishing for you, moving your scorched lotion less skin back and forth until she gets it in just the right position to shoot it with evil x-ray rays. Stupid reading. Stupid Mom. Totally her fault.
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AuthorMy name is ej. I'm a girl. I say that because with the short hair and the short initials, folks aren't always sure. More brilliant insights to who I am in About me Archives
April 2019
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