I love the bookstore. I do. I love the smell of books, and I love going to buy some delicious, overly priced coffee and joining my fellow bookworms (possibly wearing Spock ears) lounging in the comfy chairs in the sci-fi section on a Friday night. Yes, it’s true. My husband, The Gambler, and I are sci-fi nerds, though somewhat camouflaged. (We have to speak a little Klingon to the Friday night bookstore nerds before they’ll let us sit with them). Sure, I love the classics, too, but I find the sci-fi nerds to be much less pretentious than the crowd hangin’ in the classics section.
I must go into a bookstore whenever I’m out Christmas shopping. This last Christmas, four, yes, four different people on four different occasions suggested I buy this kit at the bookstore to make organic dog biscuits for my dogs. I really don’t know why I should go to all that trouble when Odie and Fat Ashley find cow poop to be the tastiest treat EVER. My dogs wouldn’t eat my gravy when I was trying to learn how to make that frustrating stuff, so I really don’t know that I could handle any more rejection.
Most of my friends don’t view me as a sci-fi nerd, and many completely ignore that facet of my personality. They choose, instead, to lump me into the "Martha Stewart" category, which is rubbish, I say, just rubbish. Oh, don’t get me wrong. I love me some Martha Stewart, but not because she’s crafty or has a 50-pound organic, perfectly browned bird every year for Thanksgiving. No, I love Martha because I believe her to be completely insane. You just never know what "Crazy Martha" is going to do. For Valentine’s Day this year, I watched, mesmerized, as Martha walked a gentleman through how to make panty roses. But this is Martha, mind you, so she wasn’t making one panty rose. Nope. Our girl was rolling enough panty roses to make an entire bouquet. The Gambler unsuspectingly joined in during the middle of the segment and said, "Did Martha Stewart just say ‘PANTY ROSES’?" He was hooked. We watched the segment entranced, feeling somewhat dirty afterwards. I was disappointed that The Gambler didn’t make me a bouquet of panty roses this year. But frankly, I just don’t know if I have enough room in my underwear drawer for a dozen fancy panties.
