To my husband,
I know that you have pretty much given up buying me gifts. Truly, I don’t blame you. I am a pain in the ass to shop for, mostly because there is so little I appreciate. I have tried to cut sugar out of my life, so you can’t buy me chocolates unless they are very dark chocolate. But, the chocolate has to be fair trade because any other chocolate makes me feel like I am eating little child-slaves. I don’t like getting cut flowers because all I can think about is the resources that went into growing and delivering them. I seem to be missing the jewels gene, which is just as well, because if you spent money on gems in this economy I’d be seriously pissed off.
Once upon a time, I convinced you to buy me books. “I’m reading biographies,” I told you. “Just get me an interesting biography.” By “interesting,” I did not mean 973 pages on Hans Christian Andersen, who had about the most boring life of any writer.
If you were on Goodreads, you could check out my “to read” list and decide what to get me for Mother’s Day. I did suggest that to you, but since it took you until last month to join Facebook, I am not holding out hope you’ll be joining any other social networking sites anytime soon.
So, let me be direct. I would like to read something by Margaret Diehl. Her books are out of print. Go to Alibris. (The rest of you can click on her name and get to her blog.) I also want to read Mama, Ph.D. and The Bitch in the House, both very good choices for mother’s day. Finally, if you’d like to stoke my homesickness for Philly, get me LOVE Park, by Jim Zervanos. You’ll remember that I taught with him my very first year of teaching, and I’d love to read his first book which, given the title, is most likely set in Philadelphia.
But, um, if you buy me a new book, could you try to go through an independent bookstore?