And also, get off my lawn.

I just picked up the library's copy of Sarah Dessen's This Lullaby. On page 12 is the line, "He turned it [the narrator's hand] palm up before I could even react, and pulled a pen out of his back pocket, then proceeded--I am not joking--to write a name and phone number in the space between my thumb and forefinger."

And in the margin, a very teenybopper hand has written in black ballpoint ink, "Why doesn't that happen in real life?"

1. Princess, this? IS NOT YOUR BOOK. It is the library's book. Nobody cares where you swooned.

2. You know why it doesn't happen in real life, sugar? Because you live in Minnesota, and even at your presumed age, even many of the most clueless males already know that if they go around grabbing body parts of women they have just met, they will a) happen upon one like me who will make sure they do not get back the pen or the hand they grabbed with or b) happen upon one who has a broad-shouldered relative happy to provide the same service at a moment's notice. There are lots of broad-shouldered relatives in these parts. Both sexes, or did you think the fella was kidding?

Seriously. This is my body. That out there is your body. If you get confused, I will be happy to give you a reminder that the bit that hurts is the bit that's you.

I am so glad my teenaged friends have more sense.

Books read, late October

( books read, late October )