Tag Archives: small talk

I Want Your Books!

OK, when Mama Kat suggests we post about “books” I know she’s talking to me. The hardest part of this post was deciding on the name. “I Like Big Books And I Cannot Lie” was a serious contender, but I couldn’t get Eddie Murphy’s Donkey Voice out of my brain. So we’re going with a song from my decade, the eighties.  Decade of the best movies and the best music. First you have to watch the video (I earned some awesome SwagBucks for searching this, BTW!

OK, I don’t care about your gender or sexual orientation – this is just sexy as hell. As has been said of Tim Curry in Rocky Horror, “If you don’t think that’s hot you have issues!”
Next step: Replace “sex” with “books” or “reading” in all the lyrics.

“Not everybody does it, but everybody should.”

Damn skippy! Everyone should read. One thing I liked about life before e-books was that you could visit someone’s home and learn a lot about them by the books on their shelves. It’s considered rude to ask to browse someone else’s Kindle or Nook, sadly.

But there are still red flags, even for those young enough to have gone digital with most of their library. One should never use a lovely Barrister’s bookcase for this *insert dripping contempt*:

There’s a special barefoot, no-pedicure area in the afterlife for people who do this.

Another is when you’re making small talk with someone you’re fairly sure has nothing in common with you and you pull your final card. “What do you enjoy reading?” If they say, “Oh, I can’t even remember the last time I read a book!” or worse, “Oh,” laughing, “I don’t read!” I’m done. I’ll text my husband where to find me and lock myself in the spare bathroom to lie on the bathmat, towel for a pillow, and pull up the Kindle app on my phone.

I’ve probably offended everyone who doesn’t read already (or they don’t read blogs to begin with because all the new hair and makeup stuff is on YouTube) but just in case you’re still with me here’s a tidbit of advice: Lie. Do not tell anyone that you don’t read books but have never missed an episode of The Bachelor or Real Housewives of Pittsburg.

Get creative: Come up with a writer’s name they’ll never remember, laugh and say it’s actually a nom de plume for (other fake name) and he/she only writes biographies of second-generation immigrant poets. Or look embarrassed and say you’ve been so busy with the triplets, your volunteer work, and raising chickens for those fabulous organic eggs that it’s hard for you to even keep up with your professional journals. You’re only a month behind on the Journal of Pediatric Neuroscience, but you’re at least two months behind on all the others. Play it right and you’ll never have to talk to that person again. Unless it’s me. ‘Cause I’d make a beeline for you next time and immediately ask about the triplets and the chickens. Just sayin’.


Extra Tidbit: I laughed hysterically listening to this song when I found it, because even if I watched the video a thousand times there’s only ONE visual it will ever bring to mind for me.  It was the summer before I was a Senior in college (or a weekend during my Senior year – hard to say) and I was working as a Nurse Tech in the Coronary Intensive Care Unit. We had very strict visiting hours back then, so there weren’t family members just wandering about gawking. A nurse named KT was giving a comatose patient a bath. It could have been any hour of the day or night since they worked the techs 7a-7p, 7p-7a, 3a-3p, and 3p-3a. And they switched it every two weeks, just to show us what to look forward to after graduation.

Anyway, somebody out at the station had a boom box (ancient piece of technology that was as large and heavy as possible and played cassette tapes). George Michael was on, and “I Want Your Sex” started. She yelled, “Turn it up!” and threw open the curtain. She was an adorable little curvy brunette, and had killer dance moves. She shook everything she had, swung towels and wash clothes above her head, and twerked before Miley Cyrus was ever a glint in her daddy’s eye! She also sang at the top of her lungs. Yes, every single patient was fully sedated, I assure you. We laughed, applauded, cried, and rolled on the floor. By the end of the song the gentleman was squeaky-clean with fresh bed linens, and the only sad part was he wasn’t awake to enjoy the show. That’s one medical bill he’d have paid with a smile on his face!


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