Orange juice, B-12, Barzun.

My husband recently took on the formidable task of organizing our ridiculous book collection. "Ridiculous" is not hyperbole. We have a little over 1,000 feet of space, and we have approximately two books for each of those feet.

Now the true crime books (mine) are all on two shelves next to the desk, the writing and reference books (ours, but mostly mine) next to them. Three shelves of political theory and punditry (his) are facing the desk. The shelf closest to me has Carl Sagan, PJ O'Rourke and The Art of War. I think this shelf, specifically, is my shelf of shame: Books I bought with every intention of reading them, and there they sit, looking pristine.

One of these books is From Dawn to Decadence by Jacques Barzun. It's not the biggest or the most intimidating book in our collection. That honor would go to Isaac Asimov's Guide to the Bible, a book so terrifying in its helt that when I happen to come across it, I make a little high-pitched sound in the back of my throat.

Reading is one of those "little vacations" I need to take more often, but Barzun... Barzun is another story. It's history, for one, and history is one of my poor subjects. Knowing more about it would add a wonderful layer of context to so many things. I'm just going to have to take it like dose. Stretches, crunches, Barzun. Vitamins, SPF-30 sunscreen, Barzun. Snowpeas, carrot sticks, Barzun.

So here I was, finally deciding that I would start it, for once and for all, but it wasn't with the other history. So I picked up Hugh Laurie's The Gun Seller again from the mystery shelves (mine). Again. See, I didn't even get near the history section, much less Barzun.

Barzun was mistakenly with the military history (his) on another shelf. And now I'm giving it that long, confused, standoffish sort of look. The same expression I reserve for lines of old code, calculus, fashion and Civil War documentaries.