"So tired, so tired, so tired, so tired, so tired." - Ozzy Osborne, "So Tired"

I am so tired.

I could write a post about people who plan adult birthday parties for weeknights when they are on vacation and others are NOT, and yet others are obliged to attend. But I am too tired to be bothered.

I could write a post about how much my mother-in-law annoys me, with her constant need for validation for every little thing she does and says. I’m sorry, the pasta was inedible and I am too tired to lie about it. And if you sprinkle crushed Ritz crackers and shredded Velveeta on top of broccoli, you have rendered unpalatable a perfectly fine vegetable.

I could write a post about patrons who incorrectly impugn my considerable abilities as a research librarian. But frankly, I am too tired to politely point out the error of their ways and content myself with snarking to you about it.

I could write a post about the squickiness level of the research I am doing for a freelance assignment. But I am too tired to figure out what my non-disclosure agreement covers, and what it doesn’t.

I could write a post about how if *I* had spent thousands of dollars on a boob job and tummy tuck, I would eschew Peter-Pan-collared gingham shirts with Winnie-the-Pooh appliqué, and high-waisted, pleated shorts (let’s face it, I eschew all these things anyway). I think I am too tired to consider what I would wear, other than Old Navy’s low-waisted cargoes.

I could write a post about how my six-year-old is driving me absolutely batshit with his mouthiness and whining and neediness, and how my four-year-old needs a volume control, and how I think The Baby may have roseola. But I am too tired to do much other than throw waffles at them for breakfast and push them outside to play.

I could write a post about how happy I am that my big brother is coming to visit over the holiday. I am really too tired to cook for him, but fortunately he really won’t care.

I could write a post about the war of words waged on the neighborhood email list, regarding whether or not children and dogs should be permitted to splash in the park fountain. I am NOT too tired to point out that we all survived fountain- and pond-splashing, tree-climbing, bike-riding without helmets, and playing Jailbreak in the street till after dark.

At least I appear to be too tired to bother being nauseated, so that’s something.

“Sometimes it pays to stay in bed in Monday, rather than spending the rest of the week debugging Monday's code.” - Dan Salomon

I started Jennifer Haigh’s Baker Towers last night, based on Gina’s recommendation. So far, so good. I like the characters; the strength and complexity of Rose especially appeals to me. I hope it continues to be as interesting.

I am also now enjoying Robyn Davidson’s Tracks; I still don’t really understand her dysfunctional relationship with Kurt, the man who teaches her to train camels; I think there must be more there than she is letting on, but otherwise I find myself caring very much about her animals and her adventure.

My little brother gave me A Short History of Tractors in Ukrainian for Christmas two years ago, based solely on the title, I am guessing. We are half-Ukrainian and quite proud of it, although neither of us speaks a word. (Well, actually, I can say “I love you” in Ukrainian, but as you might imagine, it doesn’t come in particularly handy, well, ever.) I started it the other night and like it, although it reminds me very much of Lily Brett’s You Gotta Have Balls which I didn’t especially like.

I just requested The Shadow of the Wind from the library, despite my self-imposed moratorium on library books. I am trying to read down my TBR shelves, God knows there’s enough of them. But I’ve had my eye on Wind for ages now, and Lazy Cow’s recc sealed it for me. (And by the way, I am thrilled she is back! I missed you, LC!)

I generally help out at our church by doing whatever needs to be done, and yesterday there were six boxes of donated books that needed to be shelved for the book sale. So I did it. And – the privilege of working – I scored a signed (sixth) edition of A Tree Grows in Brooklyn!
And a lovely 1932 edition of Robert Louis Stevenson’s A Child’s Garden of Verses.
And an adorable little Russian Fairy Tales volume from Peter Pauper Press, which publishes some of the quirkiest and most interesting little books around. I own a copy of Comic Epitaphs published by them in 1960, and it's a rollicking read.

It was a good haul. All for the low low price of five dollars. I feel like I should give them more, but those are the posted prices. As long as I don’t turn around and try to sell them, I think I can live with my conscience.

And now we are off to visit the newly-remodeled neighborhood coffee shop, and sip some latte (me), and eat some sfogliatelle (all of us).

Happy Monday!