This is why I can never be in a book club

I have recently started forcing myself to read again.

Don't get me wrong. I love reading. I love, love, LOVE reading. If I could find a way to just get paid to sit around and read all day? I would totally do it. In years past it was very rare to see me without my nose in a book. Then, I don't know, life got really stupid busy there for a while and I just didn't make the time to do things other than work, shower, occasionally sleep, and pretend to cook. It wasn't because I didn't want to. It was just hard to find the time.

My children take after me in almost all ways (except the bad ones, of course) and I cannot seem to get them to ever stop reading either. They aren't quite old enough to drive yet so they need someone to take them to the library and just like that? Voila. I can justify almost anything if it's for my children. Try me.

(Also, I stopped watching the Teen Mom franchise when they got to Teen Mom 3 and that frees up at least an hour a week. Or maybe two because I usually spend at least one more hour talking to someone else about how awful it was)

We all got library cards and every week or so, usually on Sunday, the three of us go off in search of what we're going to read next. Four books each. Usually a nice coffee after. We're making memories. It's for the freaking children, it's fine. They love coffee.

Because I am a huge nerd, I have compiled a rather lengthy list of books that I want to read and documented all of them on a large spreadsheet which I carry in my car. Because I haven't enjoyed nearly as many books as I would have liked over the past few years, I'm picking up things now that everyone else read a few years ago.

This week? I just finished Goodnight Nobody by the talented Jennifer Weiner.

Ms. Weiner really is an extremely talented author. I've read quite a number of her books and enjoyed them.

Except when I don't.

I have a love/hate relationship with this particular author. I love her writing. I love her characters. I love how she ties things together. I raced through this book because I honestly could not wait to see what happened next. I related, a little more than I wanted, to the Stepford-y feeling in the Connecticut neighborhood which was the setting for the majority of the novel. I really, really liked it. A lot.

And then? I got irritated.

Because I kept thinking things like, "Exactly HOW is this chick paying for groceries and music classes? You can't just MOVE and expect your husband to keep paying for everything!"  "Oh SURE she just HAPPENED to have that pill in her purse! Bitch, please!" "Yeah right, everyone has this one rich and famous friend which enables them to just do whatever they want. Sure."

I'm too realistic to enjoy fiction. I seriously think this.

I read Good in Bed years ago and I was not just irritated, I was enraged. ENRAGED. It was an excellent book. Wonderful characters. Great story. And the part about the premature baby just made me lose my mind. LOSE. MY. MIND. Anyone who has had a preemie will tell you, this is not the way it happens. You do not just go outside and start walking a billion miles while your child is in the hospital. My blood pressure is rising as I type this, seriously. It's not real life.

Because it's not supposed to be. IT'S A FREAKING NOVEL. It's not a memoir. It's not non-fiction. IT'S NOT SUPPOSED TO BE REAL.

I just can't let myself enjoy it the way I used to. Life has made me too hard. Or something. I don't know.


I just bet this is why I could never get into Harry Potter. I just bet it is.