I thought I would sleep like a rock as soon as the book was finished, but I haven’t been able to stay asleep since. And I’ve been in a crummy mood since Friday. Down in the dumps. Very grouchy. No reason for it as far as I can tell so I’m riding it out.

What isn’t helping is how stifling hot it is inside this house. It has been around 90 degrees here the last couple of days, which has made this ill-insulated box I call home warm up to 80. It’s April! May! It’s May! (Looking at the calendar is so yesterday, dontcha know.)

I carried the fans up from the basement. Set the little one up in the bedroom and the jet engine-sized one up in the living room, and as long as I don’t move around a lot and keep my mind elsewhere, I can deal.

That’s where books come in. I set myself up in the bedroom so my head is 16 inches from the fan, and I read.

Last night I finished Sex as a Second Language. Promising title, eh? It falls in the crack between chick lit and paperback romance. The main character is a thirty-ish out-0f-work actress who teaches English to immigrants. She is raising her eight-year-old son by herself and battling her soon-to-be ex-husband for the apartment they shared. Into this comes her estranged father, a CIA operative who wants to get to know her now that his career waning. The sex part comes in when she begins dating one of her students, a supposed Icelander who has trouble with idioms but not with getting her out of her clothes. He would be ideal for her if he weren’t also a CIA operative sent to use her to get to her father.

I found this on a remainder table months ago, started reading it once but set it aside fairly quickly. I don’t care for traditional romances and a lot of chick lit bugs me, so why I picked up this book is a puzzle. I think I wanted light with a promise of romance. It isn’t poorly written, but it’s froth topping air. I like froth but mostly when it tops something a little bit complex.

Since I’m on a bit of a reading jag, I told myself I have to read a few of the unfinished books on my bookshelf before I buy a new one. This is why I regularly visit Harlan Coben’s latest book in the bookstore. . . stroke its cover, read its first page. . . but have not bought it. I can wait until the paperback. I can wait until the paperback.

But I’m not sure I can face another finish-later book off my bookshelf. I think I need a palate cleanser.

So I went to Target over my lunch hour, ignored the siren’s wail coming from Coben’s book and considered only what was available in soft cover. I found a nonfiction book that I’d like to read someday. It’s about the manhunt for John Wilkes Booth. Someday. Too heavy for right now.

Then I saw Dream When You’re Feeling Blue, a new Elizabeth Berg novel. I haven’t read her last few books because the subjects have sounded too damn depressing. But this one! It’s about two sisters living in Chicago during WWII. It’s as if she wrote it with me in mind!

I didn’t buy it. I will, oh yes. But today I put it back on the shelf and picked out a paperback: The Diagnosis of Love. Kind of a crummy title but the first few chapters promise humor and solid characters.