Last night I was able to take my parents out to a nice dinner for the 50th wedding anniversary. This, after they showed up at my door Sunday afternoon unloading mounds of Christmas goodies that our family was not able to transfer to Brownsburg (due to lack of space in our car).
Sorry . . . yes, my extended family goes nuts at Christmas. We will be sorting through these packages until well after Easter, and often, I'm still finding new items in the box after the 4th of July.
One of the sacks my parents delivered was a large box of books that, I assume, they expect me to read. Most of these books, however, go directly from the box to the shelf and then to Half Price Books for resale. Even after forty years, my family can't quite comprehend my reading habits. I'm truly not interested in reading any Kevin Trudeau books about Cures They Don't Want You To Know About, or titles like, Ten Ways to Lance a Boil, or A Hoosier Guide to Shopping at Wal-Mart or Uncle Billy's Garden Guide to Fertilizing with Dog Poop.
I know, some of you probably think these titles are right up my alley. But I wouldn't read them. Write them, maybe, but not read them. Until the next box . . . .
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