Adulterous Russian snakes!

coworker C: I need a book to read. A classic.
me: Well, i'm reading Anna Karenina ...
C: Is that about snakes?
me: *howling with laughter*
C: It's not like Sense and Sensibility right? I hate that shit ...
me: *still laughing*
C: *protesting* Well, maybe you have a funny accent and it sounded like "anacondra!"

Speaking of which, I am enjoying the book, which is not at all like Sense and Sensibility. Some mental block keeps me from "classics," generally. At least the Russian ones. I assume that the hordes of people over the centuries who have enjoyed these books have been masochists; that the people who labeled them "classics" in the first place were stern, humorless English professors who read everything, even magazines, with pens in hand.

Or quills.

But see, then I start reading one, like Tom Jones by Henry Fielding, and LOVE it. Read passages aloud to friends. Laugh when remembering bits and pieces. Then, when the next stout little paperback with the familiar name rolls around, I regard it with distrust all over again. Someday, perhaps a year from now!, I'll learn.