I love November.
Maybe its just for selfish reasons, being as how I was born this month. No I don't love getting older, just November. The name itself is kind of...
Well, I can't think of the right word, but it just sounds like a fall month. November smells like fall. Leaves, wood smoke, turkey.
On the topic of getting older, there is not much to say. I'm still young, I haven't hit thirty yet. Not that thirty is old, but compared to twenty, it sort of is. But believe me, I am more than halfway there. I wonder if I will cry when I turn thirty? Probably not. I'll most likely get busy with my hubby and relish in the fact that no one can call me a twentysomething anymore.
I just tucked the boys in and read them What Do You Do With a Kangaroo? by Mercer Mayer. If you have children and don't have any Mercer Mayer books, then get yourself to a Barnes & Noble pronto. I am one of those types that will stay up twelve straight hours to finish a book. I get lost when I read, time around me stops. If I had nothing else to distract me, reading would be an excellent weight loss aide. I would just forget to eat if I could read as much as I want. The Hubby does not get it. He doesn't read, doesn't want to. He always chides me about the dozens of novels lying around that I have read cover to cover numerous times. He says that if he did read, it would be nonfiction. I don't want to read about real life, I am living it. I want a good story. A well written book is like watching a movie in your head, but so much better.
I hope if my kids get anything from me (besides my beautimous looks) that it is my love of literature. Nearly everything I know I read somewhere, sometime, and never forgot. And on that note, I'll end with a line from one of my favorite songs.
I read somewhere that you've got to beware. You can't believe anything you read. -Jack Johnson