Because it's holidays.

It's been a little hectic lately. After whisking my husband down the peninsula for a couple nights to celebrate our second wedding anniversary (an elaborate subterfuge that enrolled my aunt as an unwitting conspirator) and generally gallivanting about, we've spent the last two days throwing stuff out.

Him, idly turning over one of the hundreds of books I've slated for expulsion: "Didn't you say I should read that book?"
Struggling up the stairs with another armful, I roll my eyes. "I DID say that, but there are another twenty books I think you should read that are way better books."
"But this is a good book, right?"
"Not so good I'm going to read it again. I'm only keeping books I actively WANT to read again."
He doesn't get it. But I go through books the way teenage boys go through cereal.

There are literally almost four hundred books stacked up on our sideboard awaiting the grand purge. I can't decide how to get rid of them. I could take them to a trash'n'treasure Sunday and sell them for a dollar each (which I think would actually work) or institute a new house rule: no-one leaves without a book.

Forget that. It's practically an unwritten rule here anyway. People come over, we talk about books, I enthuse over something and wind up pressing it into their hand as they leave. Mostly I never see these books again (which is FINE, as it saves me the guilt of disposing of them) which, come to think of it, is doubtless why I often want to buy multiple copies of my favorites. Show me a copy of Neil Gaiman's American Gods or Anansi Boys, or Rohinton Mistry's A Fine Balance or anything by Barbara Kingsolver and I want to buy it just so I can pass it on to someone else.

I know. Clearly I'm crazy. Lucky I never tried any career other than teaching.