Because I’m bored and lonely.
I should really do this more often, but I’m afraid of being even less productive overall than I already am.
There’s nothing to tell, so where should I begin? The other day I was telling Mister Bubby not to forget that he had Cub Scouts that evening, and he said, “Oh, yeah, I have to bring my knife.”
“No, you don’t,” I said. “You’re all done with knives.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I got an e-mail from [the den leader] saying that you’re all done with knives, and you’re not going to be needing knives at den meetings anymore.”
“Well, I’m going to bring my knife, anyway.”
“Why, so you can have a knife fight?”
“No. That wouldn’t be safe.”
Does that make you feel better about a 9-year-old possessing a badge that permits him to carry a knife? I thought it would.
On a different other day, I was wishing Wayne a happy (belated) birthday on the Facebook, and because I don’t like to show up on someone’s Wall on their (belated) birthday empty-handed, I decided to chuck a book at him. And being that Wayne is such a notorious book snob, I opted to chuck The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society at him–because it’s not like he’s going to read it anyway. (I mean, he can’t. None of these Facebook gifts are real, so if I chucked a book that he wanted to read, that would be kind of cruel, wouldn’t it?) As cute as that story is, though, it’s not the point of this paragraph. In response to my Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society-chucking, Wayne said, “The title of that book compels me to hate it.” And I must say, despite the fact that I am not a book snob and in fact my reading standards are about as low as they can get without veering into Meet Miffy territory, the title of that book compels even me to hate it, which is saying an awful lot, don’t you think?
I don’t even know what that book’s about. I hate the title so much that I don’t even want to know. I am utterly devoid of curiosity. I have the Amazon page up right now–I wanted to make sure I remembered the title correctly–and I can’t bring myself to look at it. That’s how stupid that book sounds to me. And yet, I acknowledge that if I were to actually read the book–if someone ripped the cover off and blacked out any place the title happened to appear inside–knowing me, I probably wouldn’t mind it. So what is the point of this paragraph? I don’t know. I guess that titles are important. Or they can be. To me. Hopefully not to you, gentle reader, because titles have never been my strong suit. Obviously I have no intention of learning anything from this experience. I just wanted to share it with you because I’m bored and lonely.
It did get me to thinking, though, that if I were stranded someplace boring and all I had was a handful of books to keep me occupied, what book would be too stupid for me to consider occupying myself with? You know, I’ve actually been in this situation many times. You would be surprised at the number of people who only own totally-uninteresting books. My father and step-mother have a whole room devoted to books, and most of them are uninteresting, but their home library is far superior to some others I’ve seen. But that’s neither here nor there. I was making up a game for myself, and I tried to come up with the least interesting books I could think of–all books I hadn’t read yet but nevertheless had no interest in–and decide which, out of those totally-uninteresting books, I would choose to try to occupy my time in Boringland, and which book(s) I would not consider reading under any circumstances.
In no particular order and just off the top of my head:
1. The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society by Some Person I Don’t Know Because I Already Shut Off the Amazon Page Due to Lack of Interest;
2. The Audacity of Hope by Barack Obama;
3. Any of those books about the cat that solves mysteries by Lillian Braun;
4. Angels and Demons by Dan Brown; and
5. Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert
I have zero interest in any of these books.
Please note that I make no judgment about the potential goodness or badness of any of these books. I know, for example, that a lot of people love love LOVE Eat, Pray, Love. I’m not saying that it’s a bad book or a boring book or an anything book. I’m saying that it doesn’t interest me. It so thoroughly avoids interesting me that if it and I were sitting in the same room together, I would probably opt for day-dreaming over opening it. That’s all.
Now as far as which one I would opt for if someone was holding a gun to my head and telling me I absolutely had to read one of these books–well, I just don’t know. I’m pretty impressed that just off the top of my head I could think of five books that are equally uninteresting to me. I’m almost inclined to say that I would pick one of the cat books just because, I don’t know–I don’t really have anything against cats, do I? But then I think, no. No. A book about a cat solving a mystery is just stupid. I can’t go there. So I am back at square one again. It is a dilemma. And now the game is boring me.
I know what you really want me to blog about, though. You really want to know how my George Washington carrot cake turned out, don’t you? Well, you’re in luck. First I will give props to my sister, foo4luv, for finding this connection between Washington and carrot cake. I will also give due credit to fellow Xangan zhen_ting for this worthy rationale: “After his time in office, George Washington retired to Mt Vernon and took up his previous occupation as a gentleman farmer. Farmers of that time used horses. Horses eat carrots. Therefore, George W probably saw (or even grew!) carrots in his lifetime.” Bravo.
And now I will tell you my own thoughts on the matter: The carrot is a root vegetable. The founding fathers are like, ah, the roots of our republic. Therefore, George Washington is like a carrot. You’re welcome. Here is the finished cake:
Not quite as impressive as the other one, I know. No frosting disaster, for one. The frosting, I must say, turned out really, really well. As did the cake itself. Which just goes to show that success is not nearly as entertaining (or interesting!) as failure, and I only share this image with you because I know you’d just spend the rest of your lives wondering about it if I didn’t. In the future, will you believe me when I say there’s nothing to tell? Of course you won’t, because you’re human and you can’t help but be fascinated by everything the Giraffe does. But that’s neither here nor there. The point is that I’m done blogging for the day, and you are now free to enjoy your weekend. If you come to my house, I will feed you some cake.