When I Talk About When I Don't Talk About Books

The other day, somebody said to me "By the end of your blog posts, I forget we work in a book store." I can't remember who it was or if they were kidding or not (some booksellers seem to think that it is 'funny' to 'berate' me in order to 'get a rise out of me' but I assure you that that is incorrect, dear reader, that there is nothing funny about being mean to me. Saying I'm pretty and giving me candy, on the other hand, is a totally different matter entirely and I encourage you all to do so), but I kind of took it to be a compliment. This is not the first time I've misinterpreted a would-be insult as a compliment, and by the golden, syrupy grace of God, it won't be the last. I don't know though, what does that mean? It probably means I don't talk about books enough in my entries. I understand that, we're a book store, the blog should probably be about books. But I can't blog about books. I mean I can, and I sometimes do, but what I'm really psyched about is the other stuff.

 I get excited when people are surprised when somebody super-famous comes to the store to do an event for our Writers and Readers series. I love when people come into the store, look around, faintly overwhelmed and ask me, "do you guys have birthday cards?" and I get to say 'Oh sir and/or madam, such cards, such wonders do we have.' and I get to tell them about card and gift, aisle one, on your left. As frustrating as it can be, I really like when somebody comes over to Infosmith with a vague plot outline of a book they just heard about on the radio, and through their memory and my most impressive google skills, we find the book and they leave with it in their hands. 

So if you forget that I'm talking about a book store when I write these blog posts, its probably because sometimes I don't really think about the books very much. I like books, I'm an english major, I'm a writer (whatever the heck that means) but what I do when I work isn't about books, it's more about people. When I'm on my game it is, anyway; I have my bad days, too, where I don't want to deal with your problems and I'm hungry and probably bloated (come on now, it's the internet, I have to be honest) and I just want to go home, but I swear with scouts honor that I will do my very best to hide those facts from you. I want you to be happy, I promise. I like that the store I work in is unique, and I like that it is part of a community. In this economy, we are taking steps in order to branch out, to find other ways to stay afloat, and all the other things that we do at Booksmith are going to help us do just that. All the ephemera that comes out of my internet crazy mouth, that's all equally important. Okay, its mostly all equally important, my tales of ripping up stop signs and going to the MFA with my sister, maybe not so much. I never said I wasn't a package deal.

Also, whoever said that, who I know is going to come up to me tomorrow, wide-eyed and apologetic: don't even think it, I did not write this because I'm mad at you. The deep and profound truth of your words just struck me, that's all. Yes, I DON'T write about books terribly often, and yes, I DO live under a cloud of terror that, someday, one of the managers will discover it's because I can't read. However, until that day comes? I remain, as ever, your humble servant, blog readers. This is thursday, signing off.

But before I do, just to let you know, I was not in the store for an hour on Tuesday before I bought two of these fake, moldable mustaches. If there's any left tomorrow I'm buying more. Just saying, may be the greatest thing to ever happen to me. Okay goodnight.