The Bare Bones on The Book House

Val's horizons were widened yesterday, much like her rump over the course of the past several decades. The Book House trip by the family Thevictorian was a rousing success.

Hick scoped out the place like a future real estate investment for when he wins the PowerBall. He hiked down to the bargain basement and found five books for himself. That they were all children's books was not a source of embarrassment for Hick. After all, he's the guy who moved my belongings from our old house, and filled the living room bookshelf with "the books that were most colorful." Hick indeed judges a book by its cover. What's between the bindings makes no nevermind to him. It's not like he's actually going to READ those books. He wanted them for his creekside cabin. I will have to post some pictures of its interior one of these days. As thanks to Hick for taking me to such a foreign destination as a bookstore. He told me what a bargain he got, and related that he didn't have a book younger than 1935. Which is surprising, since I saw Goodnight Moon, and Google tells me that a first edition is 1947. Let's hope The Book House is not trafficking in counterfeit Goodnight Moons.

The Pony found four science fiction books, and Sioux bought him Ender's Game. He is thrilled with his take. We had planned on them being Christmas presents, since he cannot name anything he wants, and will face the fate of Old Mother Hubbard's dog when he looks under the tree Christmas morn if he doesn't formulate a wish list soon. I relented and told him that he can pick one book to read now, along with Ender's Game, and I will wrap the others. He'll forget the titles by then, and they will be a surprise.

I feared that The Book House would give me a fit of claustrophobia. The pictures on the website definitely do it justice. A manatee-like woman such as myself does not seek out narrow hallways and cramped quarters. I get antsy in Walmart when people squeeze past my cart. However, I felt at ease in the presence of the booksigners extraordinaire. I did not venture up the stairs, nor down into the basement. I could have given the weather forecast for today based solely on the protestations of my knee joints. Dave Murray ain't got nothin' on Val when it comes to falling barometric pressure. More on the House itself tomorrow. Or the next day.

The signers were Beth M. Wood, Donna Volkenannt, and Sioux Roslawski. I grabbed a couple of books, which were going like hotcakes, according to the proprietor of The Book House, and stepped up for my signatures.

I was remiss in chatting with Beth. She had real people standing around her, awaiting her John Hancock. I did not want to horn in on their experience, so I moved on down the line to Donna.

I must say, that Donna is quite a mannered lady, no tobacco-chawin' or inappropriate scratching for that one. At least in public on this day at The Book House. I let it slip that I am anonymous, and that she could sign my book to Val or to my real name. With that, Sioux's ears perked up like those of an overnight guard Doberman on a lumber yard parking lot upon hearing footsteps crunching on gravel.

My first impression of Sioux was that her head certainly LOOKED like it would fit in a faculty restroom sink without any ill effects. My second impression was that Sioux was peering at me like a woman trying to commit my features to memory, in order to create an accurate likeness for the construction of a voodoo doll later in the evening.

Sioux introduced Lynn Obermoeller, who was quite friendly and gracious to me, though I suspect her real purpose was to keep Sioux under surveillance for the good of all patrons of The Book House that evening.

T'Mara Goodsell materialized out of thin air, which was a bit unsettling. Since she's done time in the trenches of public school educational facilities, I look upon this skill as a superpower, and not something to be controlled by placing a box of TicTacs in her pocket to announce her future sidling.

Taking seven point two minutes out of her writing, submitting, crafting, picture-taking, and beach-dreaming schedule, Linda O'Connell strolled in to wreak havoc. Just one more service she offers. She was quite generous in giving me a new alias.

We'll get down to more nitty gritty tomorrow.
Even Val has a length limit.