It's been another one of those beautiful, blue winter days, and I am listening to the suburban noises of dusk: heavy traffic on Milton Road; the outraged yaps of yard-bound dogs at the sight of their luckier peers walking past on leashes; and the shrieks and growls of neighbourhood children at play. Heather has just gone to the shop to buy ingredients for tonight's dinner. One of the best things about being in a relationship must be that you don't have to cook every night. Oh, sure, the union of two souls is great, top of the list, but the diminished chore-load is right up there too.
I have been technically unemployed for the past month or six weeks, but I have two jobs starting up next week. The last six weeks haven't felt like a holiday, since I've been so worried about money, but now I feel like I can actually watch a little daytime TV and generally lounge about guilt-free until next week. And read books!
Yesterday I went into the city and bought another David Sedaris book. I bought
Naked a few months ago and loved it. For anyone who's not familiar with Sedaris, he's a gay American guy who writes hilarious autobiographical essays. Read 'True Detective' from that collection for a story so funny that you run the risk of choking on your own saliva.
Anyway, I saw another book of his,
Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim, at a bookstore in the city and decided I could really do with some more of his humour. I was kind of excited, the way you get (if you're a book nerd) before the purchase of a promising book. I took my book to the counter, wondering if the sales assistant would recognise me for the woman of taste that I am. I proudly slipped the book across the counter.
'Just that one, thanks,' I said. I seem to say this frequently, even though I'm always stating the obvious.
The sales assistant took my card and swiped it. 'Have you read his stuff before?'
Finally! Acknowledgement and a sense of communion would be mine.
'Yeah, I read
Naked, and I really enjoyed it,' I answered coolly, as I entered my PIN.
For a minute, the woman didn't respond. The minute my receipt started printing, she said, 'Yeah, this one isn't as good as that. Not as funny.'
I felt as though it was Christmas Eve and Santa had jumped up and down on my gifts, handed them to me amid the tinkle of smashed glass, and said to me, 'Here you go. Merry Christmas, kid.'
