I went to the bookstore today, which is one of my all-time favorite things to do. And I went by myself, which meant I could get a tea at Starbucks without having to put out for an $8 cupcake to bribe one of my children into letting me stay as long as I wanted, and then I got to stay as long as I wanted.
I bought nothing, which isn't terribly unusual, for me. Normally I wander around, scoping out new books and checking to see if any of my favorite authors have written anything recently, and making a list of books that I will buy later for the cottage. (If I buy them now they sit on the shelf and call to me and I end up reading them way before we go to the cottage.)
I also checked out some possibilities for the "Mother/Daughter Book Club" that Thing 2 and I will be participating in very soon. (Neither of my children are the enthusastic readers I expected they would be....their father's DNA once again pummels mine into the ground. With this latest venture, it is my hope that Thing 2 will, at the very least, be familiar with a book that does not have pictures in it.) All in all it was a very pleasant way to spend the afternoon.
And then I spotted this: an autobiography of David Hasselhoff.
Good. God. Who on earth would spend any amount of time whatsoever learning about The Hoff, let alone for 304 pages?
Now, before you pin me as a book snob, let me tell you that I have read far more than my share of junk-food for the mind. Any book is a good book if you are enjoying it. But I do have some standards. They are low, but they're higher than that, thank God.