January 5, 2011
2011 BookFest, version 1, took place last night.
Or a rather miniaturized version, .5, occurred.
Around 9.30, fatigued from running errands, driving children here, there and everywhere, dinner making, family messaging, and that other thing. . . .
Hmmmmm. . . . .what was it again?
Oh.
Right.
Working.
I decided to go to bed, don my warm, snugly flannel jammies, and delve into the pile of books that found their way to me yesterday.
Knowing myself as I do, I did ask Stephen what his intentions were towards my books should I happen to fall asleep while burrowing into my books.
This is an important question.
Upon spying the pile on the kitchen table earlier last evening, he looked at me and asked,
"And where do you plan on putting those?"
Me: Does it really matter!!!???!!! Look! Books!!!! Words on a page, ideas transcending time and space, a veritable cornucopia of unexplored worlds, uncharted territory!!!
And you want to bother me with trivial notion such as space for these glorious new adventures on paper??????
I KNOW what Stephen would do to these books.
If.
He.
Could.
Off to my office they would go, where there stands a strong possibility that I may never see them again.
I know this because I have to go digging for a book I need to read before Tuesday.
A brief, yet surprisingly thorough scan of my office yesterday yeilded no such book.
So I'll have to engage in a more than brief expedition today.
Thus, asking Stephen his intentions towards my books is an important and necessary question.
He sighed.
And said he'd put them on my dresser.
"Really?" I asked.
"Really, really" he replied.
Sure enough, only two books in, I was out faster than a child filled to the brim with kiddie Gravol.
I enjoyed the two books I started.
The one about the difference between welfare policies and the experiences of people actually in need of welfare is fascinating.
Written by a journalist.
With words I've never encountered before.
So I've started a list.
Let the expansion of my limited vocabulary begin!
That's okay though.
There's always tonight.
And ten more books to go.
Twelve if you count the two I have to have read for Tuesday.
Fourteen if you also include the two I've been reading for the last few days.
I.
So.
LOVE.
Books.
Stephen likes books.
He doesn't harbour any long festering, deep seeded, malicious, fermenting hatred towards books.
Otherwise I would have never dated him.
Let alone get married.
He just doesn't love them.
Not like I do.
Not many people do.
If books were living things, I may be incarcerated given how much I love them.
Perhaps he is tired of staring at the piles upon piles upon piles of them that have overtaken our house.
At least as much as he will let them.
I have boxes of books in the basement that he refuses entry to on the grounds that there simply isn't any place to put them.
Bull***t.
His pages-and-spine inspired wounds had a bucket of salt rain upon them last evening when, after a trip to Kent, Keith came home with a bookshelf.
For his own ever growing pile of books.
He spent over $400.00, of his own money, yesterday at the UNB bookstore.
Preparing for his second term of this academic year.
That's the deal.
We pay tuition.
He pays for books and supplies.
Coming home and taking his books upstairs into the semi-hovel he calls a room threw into sharp relief that he was in need of some sort of shelving for his ever increasing stacks of books.
At dinner, he asked Stephen if, perhaps, he would like to take a trip to Kent that evening to peruse book shelves.
Asking Stephen if he would like to go to Kent is like asking Emily if she'd like to swim her way through a vat of PC Chicken Wing and Blue Cheese chips.
Stephen's eyes lit up brighter than the Christmas tree and all the outdoor lights of everyone within a 100 kilometer radius of our house.
As long as Keith accompanied Stephen as a chaperon Stephen could go to Kent.
Stephen, alone, cannot go to Kent.
He can't control himself.
Lamps, mirrors, do dads and gee haws come back with him when he goes alone.
Plus, Stephen could get the appropriate screws for my new, hand cranking pencil sharpener he needs to mount downstairs.
This pencil sharpener came with its own screws.
Aluminium screws.
These aluminum screws were not satisfactory.
Not at all.
Not for Stephen.
So, viable reasons in hand, Stephen and Keith set off for Kent.
Coming home with a lot more than a bookcase.
I didn't know Kent stocked Sailor Jerry's, Corn Pops, Pringles, celery, PC chips, coffee cream and other sundry items.
Keith comes into the kitchen, proudly showing me the box containing his book case.
And then he, and his Sailor Jerry's, go upstairs to put the bookcase together.
I'll be glad when Keith starts classes again.
Effectively limiting his association with Sailor Jerry's.
And the toilet bowl.
Stephen, then, is hell bent we get more bookshelves.
I'm fine with that.
But because he is Stephen, it can't be any bookshelf.
It has to be a solid wood, finished bookshelf.
No pressboard or veneer for my spoiled rich boy.
Meaning the likelihood of bookshelves gracing this house are slim to nil.
At least until the kids move out.
Stephen is not the only one who wants things he can't have.
Keith experienced some of this yesterday.
For some reason, he was determined to spend money.
And he didn't seem to care what he bought, just so long as he bought something.
He has been pining, aching, brooding for, coveting, desiring, wanting, languishing over a flat screen, plasma television.
Already in his possession is a television.
No more than three years old.
He even has cable in his room!
But for some reason I cannot fathom and he has not been able to explain to my satisfaction, he wants a new tv.
Off to Future Shop we went.
Remember that conversation about going places I don't want to go because we are a one car family?
Future Shop is one of those places.
I'm just not into electronics.
And going to places like Future Shop, The Source, Sears, for me are like walking into an only foreign language bookstore.
I know I'm in the presence of books, but I don't know what they're about.
All the tvs he looked at looked fine to me.
Because they were all tvs.
I wasn't aware of the minute distinctions in megahertz, whatever those are.
Or what a 1080 mean.
Or how this Toshiba isn't as good as that Sony.
Or vice versa for all I know.
Furthermore, I just cannot for the life of me figure out how come any sentient being could ever need a television the size of the side of a three storey house.
No one needs that much tv.
Ever.
Conspicuous consumption.
Not to mention the potential for blindness from sitting too close.
Blindness and melting braincells.
Luckily, Keith didn't get a new tv.
But hell bent on spending money, he did get textbooks.
And investment.
Not a divestment.
Everything has the potential to be upsized.
McDonalds fries enough to clog your arteries in 1/4 of the time it would normally take.
Upsized drinks that contain about 4 liters of soda in one shot and enable sugar blindness after consuming half.
The larger than large theater popcorn with a pound of butter, layered (I haven't asked the kids what that means. . .I'm not sure I want to know).
What is it with upsizing????????
Club Packs??????
Okay, some club packs are okay.
Toilet paper.
Ketchup.
Baking soda.
We can't keep baking soda in this house.
Stephen uses it for cleaning.
Consequently, when I need a teaspoon for something or other, I am informed that it has been sent down the drain, with vinegar, to unclog the long hair and shampoo buildup in our drains.
And you never know how badly you'll need baking soda until it isn't there.
I remember when my parents upgraded from their 14 inch portable tv to what they have now.
A 40 inch tv.
My mother used to sit at the end of the couch, watching whatever my father was watching.
A story in and of itself.
Once the new tv was installed, she was watching tv from the far end of the room, practically sitting beside the washer and dryer.
And even then she claimed watching it gave her a headache.
She may have taken the smaller tv upstairs to her room, and watched tv in there.
Perhaps that was the ultimate goal of my fathers tv upsizing plot.
Title Lyric: Softkill by Brainclaw
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