As you may have noticed (or maybe not), I am trying desperately to steer clear of writing about U.S. politics. Aside from the fact that it’s stressful and aggravating, there doesn’t seem to be any point to it. It changes nothing.
Hence all my recent trips down memory lane.
Sadly, though, even if I am trying my best to remain silent on the subject, no one else is.
There doesn’t seem to be any escaping “45”, his (insert swear word here) family, his cronies, his partners in crime, his sycophants, his tweets and anything and everything Russian.
The G20 really did push me over the edge and by last Sunday I found myself frantically searching for something, anything, to distract me from the annus horribilis that seems to get more horribilis by the minute.
“Aha!” I suddenly exclaimed. I remembered a book I’d bought, but hadn’t gotten around to reading yet — The Enchanted April. It’s a 1922 novel written by a British American writer that was inspired by a month-long holiday on the Italian Riviera. The perfect escape, right?? I was beside myself with excitement, something to get lost in, something that would take me far, far away from you-know-who and you-know-what.
Well, you know what they say about the best laid plans.
It was not to be found in my bookcases. I have a lot of books, so I looked again. And again. And again. Absolutely determined to find it, I removed every book from every shelf to make sure I hadn’t somehow missed it.
Desolated, I returned every book to every shelf.
“Aha!” I exclaimed again. “I must have downloaded it.” No such luck.
“Where the (bleep) is that (bleeping) book,” I whined to an empty room. Well not exactly empty, Bartlett (my cat) was there. But he was not helpful at all. In fact, he looked bored.
“Who took it?” I fumed. “Somebody took it!”
“But who?” the rational side of me countered. “No one is here when you’re not here.”
“Not necessarily,” I answered (yes, I was talking to myself). “What if the superintendent came in to do some repairs? What if he took it?”
“Unlikely” argued the rational me.
“Aha! It was my cleaning lady!” the crazy me responded. “She borrowed it and forgot to tell me.” In fact, she does sometimes borrow books so this was plausible.
Being convinced that I’d solved the mystery of the missing book did nothing to alleviate my frustration, however, because I wanted to read it. I wanted — needed — to read it right then and there. That very minute.
So I huffed and I puffed and I vented but, alas, it didn’t put the book in my hands. So I let loose with a B I G sigh and resigned myself to finding another distraction. I was exhausted by all the emptying and refilling of bookshelves anyway, so I decided to just chill (nap) on my balcony and enjoy the sunshine instead.
And then, no sooner had I parked my ass on a chair, with a freshly-brewed glass of ice tea by my side, that it came to me:
I hadn’t bought the book at all. I had gotten it from the library. I did start to read it, but hadn’t finished by the time I had to return it. I’m usually a fast reader, but I was pretty busy at the time and I had to keep putting it aside.
Maybe I just need a long rest in a sanitarium. In Italy?????