The reading bug has got me lately. Along with the cold bug. Which means I've been reading an insane amount of books. As soon as Bombie is asleep at seven, my husband heads off to the computer (yes, he's one of those thirty-somethings who like video games - hey, to each his own!) and I curl up in bed with a book. Feels like home. Mmmm.
But I digress. Along with some great books ("Dry" by Augusten Burroughs), some guilty pleasures (the entire "Twilight" saga by Stephanie Meyer that Borders keeps insisting is young adult, not bestseller or adult fiction), I'm also reading "Revolutionary Road" by Richard Yates. Sometimes you don't notice books until Hollywood makes movies out of them. Shameful, I know.
Anyway, so far RR is the most infuriating book I've read. Yates gets like that. He seems to be so good at characters who, quite simply, miss the point. The book was irritating me so much in fact that I was whining about it to my husband. No, I didn't stop reading it, though. I have about 100 pages to go. And while I was telling him about the family in the book, he said, "That's like us."
Oh my gosh. It was about a half hour of my telling him how that is so not like us because I would so never be that ungrateful for my life that he said he was kidding. Really, how is that funny?
The grass is really not greener on the other side. I've got home made blueberry ice cream waiting in the freezer, a beautiful baby waking up from a nice, long nap to eat her banana dinner, the kind of husband I can tell to scratch my an itchy spot on my back I can't reach, and a home in the pines where we can see the clouds come in. How much greener can the grass be? Wait. Don't tell me. I don't care.
I think I'll live on my little patch of grass for a long, long time. Body, mind and soul.
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