J.R. and I hit Barnes and Noble tonight to spend our extra 15% off coupon. I was indulging and getting a hardback because it was going to be almost as cheap as Amazon, but I didn't have to wait for it and I didn't have to cringe in fear of the shipping fucking up my book. Now, anyone who has ever been to a bookstore with me knows that I do not enter into book shopping lightly. Whilst my sister Dawn is the champion shopper of the family, unquestioned, I take book buying to another level. Every book in the stack is scrutinized carefully for flaws, hanging chads, bent pages, and any kind of marking. (I'm extra fun at Powell's, especially as I'm digging through the used books, comparing spines and page discoloration.)
Tonight was no different, and I went through the entire stack of Careless in Red before I selected the perfect one. I mean, no way am I going against my "wait for paperback" mystery mantra without getting the best fucking hardback out there. Bygones. The point is this: I take my carefully selected books to the counter (I also picked up an excellent remaindered copy of One Good Turn), the cashier rings them up, and puts them in a bag. But then she appears to doubt her bag choice: Is it indeed strong enough to hold two hardback books? She shakes the bag. She fucking shakes the bag with my two carefully and painstakingly selected books in it! Bitch, I will kill you. She's just lucky J.R. was there to usher me out before blood was shed. Also, the books were fine. But she couldn't know that!
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