A long post about nothing in particular

I hesitate to do any sort of posting here because there seems to be very little of anything interesting going on right now.

Jonas is taking a marathon nap, which means that he'll probably be up all night again. I've got to figure out a way to regulate his schedule a little better. Of course, I can't take blame for this particular time. He spent the day with Abuela yesterday, and he's notorious for not napping when he's there. When I went to pick him up yesterday evening he had just fallen asleep- time: 7 pm!

So, not wanting to drive all the way back across town just to come back and pick him up later, not wanting to leave him overnight due to my own insecurity, and not wanting to just sit around and wait for him to wake up, and knowing that waking him up would be a bad thing (he doesn't wake up well, to put it mildly), I decided to go find something to do nearby. I ended up at Barnes and Noble.

Thinking I might get myself a drink at their little cafe, I realized that I'd left my debit card in the shorts I'd been wearing earlier in the day. So, I just browsed the books and magazines instead. I mean, isn't that why you go to a book store anyway? Apparently not.

I've always known that this town has very little in the way of entertainment for the teenage crowd, but who knew that B&N would become their mecca? The place was crowded, noisy, full of pubescent, angst-ridden punk wanna-bes. I know, ten years ago I probably belonged to that group, so I should probably just shut my pie-hole.

The knitting books were less than inspiring. I only found one that had anything in it that I found remotely cute or that I would ever consider actually making, and with the price tag that books come with I couldn't see myself shelling out that much for just a few patterns, even if I did have my debit card with me.

In the magazine section I scoped out a couple of the knitting magazines which were equally as uninspiring, and a few writers mags that didn't seem to catch my interest either.

In the far corner, over between the poetry section and the local books there were a couple of rows of folding chairs set up. A few folks were sitting there having a rather loud and obnoxiously self-lauding (is that a word?) conversation. I suppose I had just missed some sort of book signing with some unknown author. The stragglers that were there were talking about writing, about the books they had in the works, etc. It made me realize that I have somewhat of a dislike for authors. Hmmm... maybe I should rephrase that. You see, when Laura and I went and saw Rusdie and JCO speak, it was an incredible time. Captivating conversation, a good audience, a stunning forum, and everyone there seemed truly interested in the authors that were there to speak.

This little book signing thing that I wandered into seemed more like a pissing match between a couple of unknowns that were hell-bent on deciding who was the better writer. Ugh.

Disgusted, I called it a night and headed out to my car.

Sitting there behind the wheel in my well-worn seat, staring up at the flickering street lights and the grids of powerlines stretching out from the intersection, in the silence, in the dark, I began to realize that this may be the only place where I truly fit in.