books – oh! no.

My sister’s birthday was last week. She wasn’t 30 – or anywhere near – but I sent her a huge card with a compromising photo of herself (think: ‘shower cap and wild game’) that said she was. I didn’t get a thank you, but I did get a there are no words, which I took to mean it served its purpose.

Her husband bought her a set of classics any bibliophile worth their salt would appreciate.

“That one. It’s large print, right?” He said, pointing to a particularly hefty edition.

“No,” said the sister.

“And they expected me to read that in high school?”

Her husband is an engineering super brain – he just doesn’t care for Victorian authoresses. Sister plans to remedy this.

“I’m going to start reading it to him every night at bed time. He says he’ll let me.”

I’m thinking he probably didn’t hear a word she said. Just nodded ‘yes’ like a lot of men like to do. I could be wrong. Or he could learn the value of reading a contract before signing off on it. We’ll see.

She also made him swear, should anything happen to her, he would make certain their youngest daughter read Pride & Prejudice and knew it was from Darcy himself, whence came her name.