I was feeling very educated to listen to "Founding Brothers", a New York Times best-seller book on CD - all 11 of them as a matter of fact,including a final CD number 12 which featured a fascinating phone interview with the author.
Listening while finishing two sewing projects and a big art project satisfied my desire to accomplish some things that needed to get done, and a craving to learn more about something - anything - almost.
Returning the CD set, I recognized a title as a famous book, although I couldn't recall any specifics about the story or the author. It appealed to me nevertheless and I happily checked it out. This morning I put the first of 7 discs into my daughter's portable CD player and programmed the eliptical machine at the school gym. I was smug to know I was once again being so incredibly productive with my time.
After about 40 minutes on the eliptical, 15 min. on the stationary bike and maybe half-way through the 4th chapter of the book, I could hear my conscience literally yelling at me to do the right thing; I turned off the CD.
A clever title like "Running With Scissors" should have been so much better than this. It was disappointing that skillfully crafted narrative would yield to the 'honesty' of being really gross.
Millons of people much more educated than myself had clamored to praise this book. It was a waste of a really great title. Then I remembered I had forgotten my glasses when I was at the library, and could not read the fine print on the CD jacket. Imagine my shock and surprise to read later that this was a non-fiction memoir.
Now I have a new question; who - having apparantly survived the mother of all dysfunctional childhoods - would want to tell everyone all about it? Some things really are best left alone.
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