Duly Quoted

"A library is a hospital for the mind."

“Adulthood comes not with the realization that you’re turning into your mother but with the acceptance of it.”

Why Is My Mother Getting A Tattoo? And other questions I wish I never had to ask. Essays by Jancee Dunn

Oh man! This was hi-larious, funny, and a breeze to read. It managed to retain my focus for an entire hour of ellipticizing, which is saying something, because truth be told, I don’t really like ellipticizing! Short, sweet, and engaging; the kind of book that makes you (by you i mean me) feel like you and the author could/should be best friends! Oh oh and thanks to my lovely sister for giving it to me.

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It’s happening, I thought. Oh, Lord, it is happening. Adulthood comes not with the realization that you’re turning into your mother but with the acceptance of it.

Do you know what’s great about getting older? Not getting looks when you say you like to go to bed early. Not getting looks when you order a seltzer instead of a vodka tonic.

I suppose I had wanted to spot something wonderfully mundane—homely, even—that would instantly transport me through an emotional time machine. If we were standing inside of a kitchen that we recognized, surrounded by all of our family members—still alive, still miraculously healthy—then we could achieve the impossible and actually go home again.

He was easily my most caustic friend, but he always argued that if you scratch a cynic, you’ll discover a disappointed idealist.

I mean, before eight hundred years of therapy, I was the kind of person who, if anybody would look at me funny, I would get a stomachache and think, What can I do to fix this? Should I buy them a present, maybe?

The only thing more exhausting than being around someone with iron regulations is being around someone with none. It takes guts to stand by your principles as uncool or outrageous as they may seem.

Forget parties, which I view as work. The irony is that even as a card-carrying hermit, I am still pleased to be invited places, and appreciative of anyone who makes the effort to host any sort of shindig, a nightmare I would never bring on myself. I know already I’d be the type of host who would obsess about the one guest who isn’t screaming with laughter, making out with strangers, and spraying everyone with jets of champagne. So I show up to any place I’m invited and then make everyone uncomfortable as, filmed with sweat, I strain to be the witty and sparkling bon vivant, the spirited initiator of a thousand lively conversations. I solicit opinions. I ask questions.

Soon we won’t care at all if anyone sees what we’re playing [on our iPods], and that’s when we’ll know we’re officially old.

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