My Bookshelf is a Liar and Other Domestic Mysteries
I recently attempted to organize my bookshelf. Bold of me, I know. You’d think I was performing heart surgery with the amount of coffee and motivational quotes I required just to begin. But I had a vision: clean lines, color-coded spines, maybe even a little plant that definitely wouldn’t die in two weeks. Pinterest would weep with joy. Instead, I uncovered the dark truth: my bookshelf is a liar. There are books I definitely did not buy. A physics textbook? I barely passed algebra. A guide to perfect parenting? I’ve been known to hide snacks from my stepkids in fake cereal boxes. And a fourth copy of The Phantom of the Opera? One in English, one in French, one in Dutch, and one that might be Italian but I can’t confirm because I can’t read it. Okay, that one’s on me—but in my defense, the covers are all dramatic and it reads like a summary of my love life: intense, dramatic, and full of questionable men in masks. Then came the bookmarks. Ah, bookmarks. Noble creatures who gallantly sac...