an announcement.

I'm not ready to call this blog "closed," but I am ready to admit I simply don't have the time for it I once did. Running the bookstore takes up so much of my creative energy, and I'm struggling to find a place to tell my stories and share my words. 

So. 

The blog will remain here as a journal of sorts, but I'm afraid it will continue to be somewhat neglected. In its place, I'll be sharing my stories in a monthly email -- a newsletter for those of you who want to keep in touch. There's no pressure to sign up, of course, but I am excited to tell my stories in a new format. 

In a desire to simplify things a bit, the monthly newsletter will be called From the Front Porch -- the same title as my weekly podcast. Each month, I'll share a personal essay, reading recommendations, favorite finds from around the web, and -- of course -- snippets spoken in the shop. 

If you're like me, inbox space is precious, so I assure you I'll keep these emails to a monthly schedule. 

This blog began at a time when I was adjusting to life in the "real world," post college graduation, pre-marriage, even. A lot of things have happened since then, and it's been my pleasure to share so many of my stories here. I hope I'll have time in the future to update here as I can -- this blog has been a great space for memory-keeping, and by writing here, I've discovered so much about myself. 

For now, though, I know time is limited, and I'd like to try in 2016 to write as often as I can. Once a month feels right, and I'd love to continue to share my words with you. 

If you'd like to sign up, I've included the form below. 

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spoken in the shop, vol. 25.

On you just never know what folks are going to say

After purchasing both The Happiness Project and Down the Rabbit Hole, customer:
"First I'll read how to be happy, then I'll read the slut!"

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On customers' ongoing love affair with Stanley Tucci

"Oh look, Stanley Tucci! He's so cute. And he married a much younger woman."

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On you-asked-for-it bread puns
Customer: "Have you ever read The Scarlet Pumpernickel?"
Manager: "Sure, that goes great with The Catcher in the Rye."

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On North vs. South
Customer, waiting at register: "Excuse me, what's going on here?"
Manager, looking for pen box: "I'm sorry; I have to find the box for this pen so I can scan it in our system. Thank you for your patience!"
Customer: "Oh, I'm on vacation. If I wasn't, I'd be biting your head off right now. I'm from New York." 

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On #girlboss
"Annie is hundred-year-old wisdom in a -- how old is she now? Twenty-six?"

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On the definition of poetry
Bookseller: "I know what good poetry is when I see it, kind of like pornography."
Customer: "Oh, so good pornography is poetry."
Bookseller: "I think it's more that good poetry is pornography."

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On #goals
Bookseller to 8-year-old girl: "Would you like a bag for your book?"
Little girl: "No, I'm going to read it while I'm walking. If I run into a pole, I'll call it a victory."

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On we're going to make it after all
"You're the heartbeat of this damn town, that's for sure!"

25/52 :: incense.

"There is a crack, a crack in everything / That's how the light gets in." 

- Leonard Cohen

"Everywhere we go, people breathe in the exquisite fragrance. Because of Christ, we give off a sweet scent rising to God, which is recognized by those on the way of salvation — an aroma redolent with life."

- II Corinthians 2:15-16, The Message

-- 

Whenever people ask why we have chosen Anglicanism, I am tempted to tell them it's because of the windows. 

The church is surrounded by them, at least eight on each side. And they're big windows, too, not yet filled in with stained glass. Jordan is beside himself, waiting for meaningful mosaics to replace the clear, but I am crossing my fingers the church will somehow change their minds. Maybe the money they need won't come, or maybe it will be earmarked for something else. Without the windows, I won't be able to see out, won't be able to touch the blue sky or glimpse the wind.

Nature, I think, might be the best iconography of all. 

It's the second service when it happens, when the sunlight hits the windows just right. The incense floats in the air, and it smells like potpourri, and I'm not always sure I really like it, the perfumed smoke filling the air.

But then I look up.

No one has explained it to me this way, but if someone were to ask me why incense, why use it in worship, why fill the sanctuary with its sweet aroma, I doubt I'd remember its historical significance, its presence in ceremonies since almost the beginning of time. I think I'd silently point to the windows.

There, as we sing and pray and kneel and commune, the incense mingles with the light. Its particles float in the air above us, and I wonder if it's as close to the tongues of fire as we will ever see. The incense dances, and I swear it's as if the Holy Spirit has entered the place Himself.

And of course, you don't need incense to see the Holy Spirit, to feel Him working and breathing and moving in your life. But I'd be lying if I didn't say it helped. So few things about my faith are tangible. I believe in things unseen, and the invisible gets hard, day after day.

But every so often, on a Sunday, I can see what I believe. And it floats in on the windows, and the scent follows me home.

24/52 :: jane.

She is a stately woman, the kind you think doesn't exist anymore, except maybe in Britain. She is tall, or at least feels tall, and naturally thin. Her hair is the grey I get a little envious of; she's the kind of woman who I'm confident has never had to worry about coloring her hair, the kind you can't imagine with anything but the crown of glory in her possession now. 

The pillow comes with her, though I don't really know why. She carries it into the shop, up to the register, and I like to pretend she uses it to make herself sit taller in the pickup truck she drives around; the pillow somehow contributes to her stateliness, which is really a testament to who and how she is. 

She comes in every couple of weeks to order a new mass market paperback with a pun in the title -- something about knitting or sewing, with a little bit of murder thrown in for kicks. 

A friend brought her into the store once, back when she was just a tourist in town. She wandered the shelves and was friendly, asking questions about Thomasville and what it's like to live here. The next thing I knew, she'd moved to town, in part, she insisted, because of the bookstore. 

I'll happily take credit, because she's quickly become a shop favorite. She's one we never mind seeing walk through the door; she picks up her books, maybe places an order for another. She mostly pays with a credit card, and the other day, I noticed she signed with "Rev." in front of her name. 

It's really not that surprising at all, stately Reverend Jane in her pickup truck. I've come to expect no less around here. 

23/52 :: armadillos, the civil war, and life in the south.

Armadillos float. 

I know this, because when I was 10 years old, my parents moved our family to the country. We weren't far out enough to have horses or a PO box, not far enough to even change zip codes, but it felt like the country to me, with a couple of acres, a pond next door, and belligerent frogs singing me to sleep every evening. 

There were trees, too, as there are everywhere in the South. Oak trees can be massive, monstrous things, and when they're cut down, they are perfect as bridges and balance beams. Those mighty oaks provided me and my brother with ample opportunities for imaginative play. Of course, we didn't call it imaginative play; it was just what we did most days. Those trees came down, and Chet and I ran around for hours, pretending to be captives in the Civil War we'd read so much about. I can't remember what side we were on, but I'd suspect the Union. Chet had a thing for Ulysses S. Grant, and even back then I think we were both a little confused about our Southern heritage.

It wasn't long before we needed a new companion to spice up our reenactments. Unfortunately, fellow 10-year-olds were few and far between out in the country, and it was a rare number indeed who were willing to fight against the Confederacy rather than kick a soccer ball into a goal. Chet and I ultimately had to compromise when other kids were involved; we put a pause on our battles and instead rode bikes or dominated the basketball court. (I beat a neighbor boy once in one-on-one, and that one act alone led to years of believing I'd one day play in the WNBA -- all five foot two of me. Confidence was never my problem.) 

So we started riding bikes with Brian. I have quite a number of fairly traumatic bike stories -- don't we all? -- but I will never forget running over the armadillo. We were off the road and into a ditch and onto the armadillo before I really knew what had happened. We may not have run over him so much as into him, but whatever we did, we caused some damage, enough where we thought we'd killed him. The jury's still out, and as I near 30, it's hard to know what I've imagined and what I haven't. 

My mind remembers this much, though: We couldn't leave that armadillo in the road, despite the incredible number of armadillos who die in the road every single day in our part of the world. We were kind-hearted children, or maybe just curious, because we were determined to bury him. Three kids and a shovel don't make much of a dent in the Southern dirt, but the pond in our neighbor's yard seemed as good a grave as any. 

I was 10, and scrawny -- neither my brother nor I was made of much muscle back then. But together with Brian, we picked up that heavy, ancient armadillo -- all armadillos look ancient -- and we walked him to our neighbors' yard. He was, somewhat surprisingly, even heavier in death than he had been in life, and it took all three of us to count to three and toss him into the pond. The poor armadillo never knew what hit him, never heard his eulogy because we never gave him one. 

There wasn't really anything kind about what we did. There was a little remorse, but mostly, I thought about the David Letterman skit I'd seen my uncle watch on television: Will it float? 

It did, and a few days later, our whole block smelled of death and rot. A fitting backdrop, really, for all that imaginative play we went back to doing. 

--

*Armadillo image by Tom Hardwick. 

spoken in the shop, vol. 24.

On kids say the darndest things

"Mom, I'm not sure if you know this about me, but food makes me dance."

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On bookseller/customer relationships

Customer to bookseller: "Maybe we're reading soulmates."

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On mother knows best
"Seriously, if I didn't think my girls would be complete a-holes, I'd totally bring them in here."

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On yes, absolutely, couldn't agree more
"Stanley Tucci has a cookbook? You know, for a short, bald guy he's pretty hot."

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On opinions
"I'm buying this book, but I really don't like the illustrations. Will you let him know?"

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On irony
Customer: "Could you guys order a book for me?"
Bookseller: "Sure, what's the title?"
Customer: "It's called Codependent No More, and I'm going to need two copies."

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On graciousness and gifts
Customer: "My friend said she left something here for me."
Bookseller: "Okay. What's your name?"
Customer: "Anna."
Bookseller: "Oh! Yes." Hands over envelope. "Here you go!"
Customer, disdainfully flips over envelope: "Well, I guess this is one way to get me off her back."
Bookseller, helpfully: "Um, it's actually a gift certificate."
Customer: "Oh."

22/52 :: finding a place.

Last month, after seven years, my mom resigned as the children's coordinator for the church I attended for most of my life. My parents have both devoted remarkable amounts of time and energy into this church, sharing their passions with people in ways I can only dream about, and as their daughter, I had the privilege of attending an appreciation banquet in my mother's honor a few weekends ago. 

My parents, being my parents, have little to no need for recognition. They're some of the most humble people I know. But their humility doesn't excuse ingratitude, and my mother long ago taught me that part of gracious behavior is accepting grace, as well as giving it.

So two weekends ago, I sat at a table and listened as dozens of people told my mom thank you. I listened as they became tearful over the impact she'd made, sometimes without even realizing it. I listened, and with each person -- no matter their age or gender -- a pattern became evident.

In coordinating a ministry for children, my mother helped grown-ups find their place in church.

That legacy alone is admirable.

As Jordan and I search for a place to call home in our faith, I've occasionally been astounded at just how assertive we've had to be in order to find even a small space. At large churches, our gifts sometimes aren't needed or required; we're barely making an impact. At smaller congregations, our peer group is entirely absent, and the roles we'd fill almost feel too large, too daunting at this stage of our lives. I've wondered if perhaps the reason my generation leaves church in droves is at least in part due to a lack of purpose and place.

In our careers, Jordan and I utilize our gifts and are contributing members of teams that need us. We have important roles and duties to fill. Without us, our places of business wouldn't function. We'd need to be replaced. In church? Not so much. Jordan and I go to church because we like it, because we feel called to it, because we were raised this way. But I don't think we go -- right now,  anyway -- because we are needed.

And that's okay for now, but long-term? I think it would hurt.

Sitting across from my parents two Saturdays ago, I remembered how often the two of them would comment about the unique friends my brother and I made growing up, how we seemed to be drawn to people who were just a little bit different. (In my case, the nerds. In my brother's, the wannabe skateboarders and punk rockers.) My parents seemed baffled by the wide variety of people we would bring home to dinner, and today? I think that's hilarious.

Because my parents found places for people, too.

Places for the 80-year-old man who someone else might have considered a "has-been," someone whose gifts might have seemed as if they were no longer needed. My mom took him, gave him a shepherd costume, and turned him into King David. At the banquet, he spoke about that role with pride, informing my mom that by making him King David, she had brought Scripture alive to him. He practically begged her to let him play John the beloved disciple.

A quiet -- and brave! -- teenager stood up, and she told my mom that thanks to children's ministry, she and her peers had, over the years, become a family. They'd grown up together, learned the Bible together, and now they were bonded for life. Another woman spoke about her move to Tallahassee, about her struggle to find her place at a church that already had women who threw showers, women who cooked meals, women who taught preschool. Where would she go? My mom saw her gifts and put her to work, and I think that's something really special.

Converse with a Christian right now, and you might hear a lot about the Republican presidential candidates. You might get an earful about Kentucky, or gay marriage, or gun control, or how the world's going to hell in a hand basket. 

I wonder if anyone would talk about belonging.

My life at The Bookshelf is filled with interactions with the public. Perhaps more than any other time in my life, I am surrounded by people. And some of them are happy, and some of them are sad, and some of them are lonely. We're all a little broken, and we're all looking for a place to belong. That's what I've learned in four years working behind a counter, because believe it or not, some people come to The Bookshelf looking for a little bit of home.

Churches have an opportunity, now, to create places for people. Turn on the news or to the person next to you on the bus, and you'll see: People are desperate for a place to belong. I could be wrong, but I think it's our job to find places for people, because He made places for us. Churches might begin to grow if they realized just how important belonging can be.

I wish you could have been with me at the banquet for my mom. It might not have meant much to you, but it meant a lot to me. It meant a lot to see that the hospitality my mother created at home extended to her work.

She created a place for me and Chet to call home, and in children's ministry, she did that for the kids, but she also -- perhaps unintentionally -- did it for their teachers, for the grown-ups who needed a place, too. That's what we're supposed to do. It's what we probably could all do a little bit better. I think it might be our calling.

21/52 :: go set a watchman.

Last night, I sat down and read Go Set a Watchman. 

The build up to Harper Lee's new book, as you know, has been enormous. The beloved author had notoriously told interviewers she'd never publish again, and yet, here she is, at 89 years of age, publishing a first draft of the book that came before Mockingbird, a book she has described as the "parent" to the American classic. 

I commented on my Instagram last week how interesting I thought the release day for Go Set a Watchman would be: the publication itself rife with controversy, plus the New York Times book review informing all of us that Atticus -- our dear, beloved Atticus -- had, in his old age, become a racial bigot. It all seemed a bit too much to ask of readers, particularly Southern ones to whom the book has meant so much. No one likes their heroes knocked off their pedestals, after all.  

But The Bookshelf sold 40 copies of Go Set a Watchman the first day, and readers still seemed eager or, at the very least, intrigued. All week long, customers asked me if I'd read it, if I intended to read it, and the truth is, I was hesitant. Atticus, Scout, and Jem are as dear to me as family, and -- if I weren't currently a bookstore owner -- I may have put this one off a bit, waited for the hype and the controversy to die down. 

I am, however, a bookseller. And reading the book is my job. So after a hectic week filled with Harper Lee-inspired events and extroverted days, I curled up in my grandpa's big blue arm chair, and I read the entire thing in three hours flat. 

A full discussion of the book would requite spoilers, some of which I've included below, but for those of you who desire to remain spoiler free, here is my brief review: Read this book. It is as flawed as you've imagined, but it is important, particularly if you -- like me -- are a Southern reader. (Though even if you're not, I suspect it has the power to resonate just the same.) 

Before last week's New York Times review, my biggest concern was Lee's writing wouldn't be up to par with her previous work; I was afraid all of those Truman Capote rumors might be fueled further. I hesitated to associate this new book with the mind of a literary genius. 

I had nothing to fear. 

The voice of Go Set a Watchman is so clearly Harper Lee's. I sat in that big blue recliner for three hours laughing, then crying over its goodness. It's not perfect, mind you -- in some places, the novel rambles, falls flat. It's a draft, and readers seeking perfection won't find it here. Instead, I suspect, like me, you'll find brilliance in its place. The book is quintessentially Southern, filled with details only a born-and-raised Southerner would know. The dialect is pure, the church scenes a complete delight. Written over 50 years ago, the book is also miraculously timely, as if Lee knew we might need a book for such a time as this.

And Scout? She's all I hoped she would be. Sure, she's now called Jean Louise, but every woman knows the girl inside never really dies, and Scout shines through at all the right moments. She is witty and cutting, and her struggle to come home feels so real and true. I'm not sure how anyone could read it and not feel some familiarity with how Scout grapples with adulthood, how she stumbles in her quest to return home. 

There is Atticus, too, and it's true: His words disappoint. But they're also incredibly realistic, and Jean Louise feels as betrayed as we all do, and the book serves as a powerful reminder that humans -- fictional or not -- aren't meant for the pedestals we put them on. The scenes between Scout and Atticus are some of the finest, truest parts of the novel, and if you're like me, you'll turn the final page, the Atticus you know and love still intact, but more nuanced than before. 

Atticus, a racist? Yes, in part. A flawed human being? In full. It's genius, because it's true. 

Go Set a Watchman felt more familiar to me than Mockingbird; Harper Lee was right -- of course -- to call it the parent to her beloved work. That's exactly, exactly, what it feels like. Scout's grown-up, and we are, too. We needed this book. I'd like to think she knew we did. 

A few spoiler-filled observations are below; please don't read these unless you've read the book first (or don't intend to read it at all!). I truly believe you'll enjoy Go Set a Watchman more if you read it with an open mind. The more information you have, the less you'll be surprised by the novel's flawed beauty. 

• If online articles and news reports are to be believed, an editor read this draft of Go Set a Watchman and told Harper Lee her flashbacks to Jean Louise's childhood were the best parts. "Make novel out of those," we're told she said. If those rumors or reports are true, I'd certainly understand why. Some of the best parts of Go Set a Watchman are still those with Jem, Scout, and Dill; they're hidden gems in the novel, and the editor is almost as genius as Harper Lee for mining them and turning them to gold. 
• The novel's weakest parts are some rambling dialog and Jean Louise's love interest, Hank, who -- in my opinion -- simply isn't interesting enough for independent, complicated Scout. 
• Atticus's racially-tinged dialogue doesn't appear until the back-half of the novel, and although it's incredibly important both for our current history and for a full understanding of his character, some of the novel's best parts are well before we learn about Atticus' failings. There's an entire chapter devoted to Jean Louise's return to her Methodist church that had me laughing out loud. 
• Jem only appears in flashbacks -- the first chapter tells us he "dropped dead in his tracks" at the age of 30 -- and while this realization is heartbreaking, it fits his character, somehow. I was saddened by it, but for some reason, not surprised. 
• Yes, Atticus is a racist -- or at least has some racist tendencies -- but his words are both nuanced and familiar if you've been raised in the South. He and Scout discuss politics -- they're both conservative states rightists -- and we see a difference between two generations that feels eerily modern. Perhaps surprisingly, Atticus hasn't been ruined for me. He is still a hero of literature, the quintessential gentleman, but now he is flawed, and I think, somehow, that makes him better (or, at the very least, more real). If you're a Southerner, this book is perhaps more for you than it is for anyone else. It may make you uncomfortable, but sometimes that's the best way to learn. 

spoken in the shop, vol. 23.

On TMI

"Do you have a paper towel? I'm sweating up a storm."

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On adulting

Teen customer: "I teach Sunday school to 2-year-olds, and would you believe the children's coordinator gave the class Dixie cups of water? I wanted to tell her, 'Um, they can't do that yet.' I'm so glad I know something a 30-year-old doesn't."

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On Kathleen Kelly and friends
"You'll love You've Got Mail. It's a great family comedy."

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On choosing your adjectives wisely
"Oh my god. That pen is delicious. So juicy!"

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On age-appropriate literature
Customer: "I have a nephew who's turning five. He's developmentally delayed, so I'd like a classic book his mother could read to him that he'll still understand and enjoy."
Me, heading back to the picture book section: "Great! We have a lot of classic, illustrated story collections, like Mother Goose or these fairy tales. But The Day the Crayons Quit is really fun and cute, too."
Customer, not convinced: "I was thinking maybe The Secret Garden."
Me: "... by Frances Hodgson Burnett?"

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On bookseller-customer confidentiality
"Excuse me, but do you have Get Your Loved One Sober?"

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On age-appropriate books
Fourth-grade boy: "Excuse me. I am looking for the literary masterpiece Sun Tzu, The Art of War."

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On "oh no, you didn't"
"I heard Harper Lee had a new book out; he hasn't published in years, has he?" 

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On price point
Bookseller, ringing up an autographed book: "Your total is $31.98."
Customer: "Geez. What'd she do, sign it in gold?"

20/52 :: thirty.

I have been thinking a lot these days about turning 30. (My entire family is rolling their eyes right now.) The milestone isn't until next year, sure, but I'm notorious for planning my birthday months in advance. Jordan hits the big 3-0 first, in November, and I've also been thinking about how to celebrate on his behalf, about what that milestone might look like for him. 

The truth is, I've looked forward to turning 30. Getting older has always looked better than the alternative, and 30 still sounds young and fun, but without the pressures and the confusion of your 20s. (Or so I thought.) Now, though, I'm noticing online surveys and questionnaires all cut off at 30. Meaning, my age bracket will completely shift: 18-24, 25-29, 30-35, or, in some cases, 40. It's a little jarring, to be sure. And there's the question of children, and the fact that I don't exactly have all the answers I thought I'd have by the time 30 rolled around. 

I've been thinking, mostly, about all the parties I threw in my 20s, and how now? Now I'm not sure who I would even invite to my thirtieth, which is a shame, because a) I throw a really grand party, and b) 30 seems like a pretty big deal. But all of my friends are spread across the states in ways they weren't five years ago, and we've moved, and life is different. 

In her book Searching for Sunday, Rachel Held Evans shares this moment when she looks at her husband and wonders who will throw them a baby shower. They've just left behind the church of Rachel's childhood -- also the church of their first years of marriage -- and they're embarking on an important journey of faith, one that's leading them to a new church, a new home. Rachel's not even pregnant, but no matter: The question is real, and it's there. It's also eerily familiar.

While Jordan and I have been visiting the Anglican church, which we love and appreciate more each week, I've found myself wondering if we'll have what our parents had, what I had growing up and for the first 29 years of my life: a church family, in every sense of the word. And it wasn't perfect, and I don't want to go back, at least not to that particular congregation, but I do wonder if we're missing something. No one calls me "Annie Sue," and if I were to become pregnant tomorrow, I have no idea who -- outside our family -- would take care of us, would host us a shower or show us tangible love. Rachel's question, which only takes up a short paragraph or two in her book, immediately struck a chord. 

In the middle of all of this truth-seeking and life-building, who is going to celebrate with us, weep with us? 

Thomasville has been home for a year and a half now; in February, when I'll turn 30, we'll hit two years. I've met some lovely people, a few I'd even call friends. But it's different, somehow, than before, and I find myself feeling a little jealous of the people I know -- on the Internet or otherwise -- who have built these grand communities and families, who seem to have friend-making in adulthood on lockdown, who will never be at a loss on birthdays or for baby showers. 

I am trying, mind you. I started a book club, and I become a completely extroverted version of myself at the store. I have not given up, but with February looming a bit as a deadline, I'm wondering: Who will I share that milestone with? I'm realizing it might not look like a big, blowout party or a trip to Vegas (which was a long shot, anyway). And that would be okay, if I knew I'd still be surrounded by the people I love, entering a new decade of life. 

But I don't know that, and it's hard. 

I'm not sure what the answer is, so I'll continue showing up and trying. Maybe I'll beg my long-distance friends to meet up somewhere in February in lieu of a celebration at home. Who knows? Living in the moment is not the easiest thing for me, but perhaps it's the best thing for me. Thirty will come along, and when it does, maybe I'll be ready. I suspect I'll at least have learned a thing or two, and maybe that's what's most important anyway. 

reading recap: june 2015.

A Prayer Journal by Flannery O'Connor. This gift-style book came out a couple of years ago, and I received a copy for Christmas, but never quite got around to reading it. A Prayer Journal is exactly what it sounds like; the book is a compilation of Flannery's written prayers from her 20s. If you're a person of faith -- or just a fan of Flannery's -- you'll know what a large role her Catholicism played in her life and in her writing, and these prayers show just how early she began thinking about incorporating her beliefs into her stories. There are also profound truths about ambition and Christianity throughout the book's pages; it's a short read, but it's meaningful, and would especially make a great graduation gift, especially for an English or creative writing major.  

The Rocks by Peter Nichols. So good, you guys. The Rocks debuted this summer, and it's an incredibly well-done epic, summer-time book. You won't fly through this one in just a few hours; instead, I imagine you'll take at least a few days to savor it and enjoy the nuanced twists and turns. The book begins by introducing us to an older couple as they're arguing; they've got a history, but the reader doesn't know what it is yet. Within the first two or three pages, the couple dies in a tragic accident (no spoilers! it's all in the premise), and we're left to wonder why and what led up to such a tense moment. The book travels backwards in time from there, and it's beautifully-written and set almost entirely in Mallorca, Spain -- the same setting as Emma Straub's The Vacationers. (The two would make great companion novels; snag both for your next trip.) For fans of Jess Walter's Beautiful Ruins. 

Me & Earl & The Dying Girl by Jesse Andrews. I read this one on both a customer's and a sales rep's recommendation, and although I'm glad I read it (I want to see the movie adaptation later this summer), it was a tough one for me to get through. The book is written poorly intentionally; the narrator admits as much in the opening pages, and although I appreciate what the writer is trying to create -- a realistic teenage protagonist -- it made it somewhat difficult to endure as a reader. I did appreciate how different this book was from The Fault in Our Stars (which it's of course being compared to), and it was nice to read a YA book that didn't entirely revolved around romance of some kind. Read it if you want to see the movie so you can compare. 

Station Eleven by Emily St. John Mandel. Favorite book of the year, hands down. The "post-apocalyptic" description really prevented me from trying Station Eleven; don't make the same mistake I did and continue putting it off any longer. The book is beautifully written and perfectly paced; I cannot stop raving about this one enough. The novel was up for the National Book Award last year, and now I see why. Station Eleven takes place in the years following a fatal plague that wipes out most of the world's population. What's left is a dying landscape intent on survival, and Mandel does an incredible job of creating a cast of characters we want to see succeed. This book isn't dark or fatalistic; instead, it's so hopeful -- a reminder of what our world gets right. If you've had this one on your list, please go ahead and snag it in paperback. You'll be glad you did.

The Royal We by Heather Cocks and Jessica Morgan. Okay, everyone has raved about this book, and I agree: It's cute and fun and definitely satisfies any royal obsession you might have since it's pretty much a fictional take on the William and Kate love story. Unfortunately, I read it right after Station Eleven, which was a complete error in judgment. I thought it would be fun to have something light after the depth of that novel, but instead, The Royal We left me wanting just a bit. I'm recommending it to customers who want something fluffy to read this summer; I thought the writing was decent and the characters likable (what's not to like about a fictional Prince William and Kate Middleton?), and there were portions of the novel that were downright touching. I think my only mistake was pairing this one with a National Book Award finalist -- it was like a good wine served with the wrong cheese. Make sure you tackle this one with other summer-y fare.

Modern Romance by Aziz Ansari. I was completely impressed by this book. Even if you're a married person who's been out of the dating scene for a while (or, if you're like me, approximately forever), you'll be fascinated by Aziz Ansari's take on dating in a technological age. Modern Romance is NOT Aziz Ansari's personal story; this isn't a comedic memoir a la Tina Fey or Mindy Kaling. Instead, Ansari got together with a sociologist, and the two have tackled the subject of modern relationships in an intellectual but relatable way (there are charts and graphs, folks). I thought Ansari was a genius for crowd-sourcing stories and anecdotes from the audiences at his comedy shows; those stories add a lot to the already-interesting research. Book clubs would be wise to try this one; the conversations would be as valuable as the book itself, I'm sure.

Eight Hundred Grapes by Laura Dave. I picked this one off the shelf based entirely on the cover design. It's a beautiful book, and I had high hopes; the premise sounds like lots of other novels I love: Dysfunctional family, small business, a little bit of romance, etc. The book opens as a young woman arrives at her brother's bar in her wedding dress a week before the actual wedding. Her dad is in the middle of harvest at their winery, and her mom is in the middle of an affair. Eight Hundred Grapes starts strong, but so many events happen to these characters that I got a little lost -- one customer compared it to a soap opera, and I guess that's the overall vibe I got, too. The bits about the family-owned winery were really interesting, so if you're taking a trip to wine country, this would be a fun guide. Otherwise, maybe check this one out from the library, or buy it to sit pretty on your shelf, because it's gorgeous, even if a little bit wanting. 

Althea and Oliver by Cristina Moracho.  This was my second YA novel of the month, and although it definitely held my attention, the defining moment in the book -- the climactic moment -- was so odd and controversial -- in my mind -- it was all I could focus on for the remaining pages, which is a shame, because the moment comes about halfway through the novel. I was grateful to be reading this one with a book club, because by the end, I only wanted to know their opinions on that one moment. The book is typical YA, but the setting is the mid-90s, which adds a different feel thanks to lots of music references and fashion depictions. (Think Eleanor & Park.) Althea and Oliver have been friends since childhood, but now they're almost seniors, and things are beginning to change and are becoming a little odd, in part due to Oliver's undiagnosed illness, which leaves him asleep for weeks at a time, a gender-reversed Sleeping Beauty (in more ways than one, you'll see as you read the book in its entirety. 

Second Life by S.J. Watson. My book club read Before I Go to Sleep years ago, and I liked it, as I recall. The book was a perfectly good suspense, and I expected the same from S.J. Watson's newest book, Second Life. When Julia discovers her sister has been murdered, she immediately goes into undercover detective mode, which gets more and more dangerous as she enters her sister's online world, including websites designed specifically for brief sexual connections and encounters. The story is pretty predictable, and it was all a little too sexual for me -- I only finished out of a stubborn desire to know the end. This is another book I'm anxious to hear your opinions about (but I'd read Before I Go to Sleep instead).

19/52 :: enough.

I have so much I want to write about: the quirky characters who frequent the shop every day; a fourth of July weekend spent in the presence of good friends; our Wednesday night Bible study which is slowly renewing my faith in the whole enterprise; the bats who flew through our chimney last week; the pre-cancerous mole I had sawed out of my upper thigh the same day as the bats' appearance, resulting in six inches' worth of stitches; and how the national news has me debating all kinds of issues in my own head (though rarely out-loud, for my own sanity and yours).

I want to write about how staffing a store is the hardest work I've ever done; how this summer is nothing like I thought it would be; and how community-building isn't going all that well, either. I want to write about loneliness and entrepreneurship, about home-making and faith-seeking and friend-making and The Bachelorette, but the truth is? I feel like I've written everything I know about those things. I've written about them until I just don't have any words, and I'm too busy, these days, living my life to write about it. 

Writing about it, of course, is how I cope. Even if I don't get the words out well, getting them out has always helped. Imagine, then, these past few months when it's all I can do to make it home in the evenings and get dinner on the table (and even that is rarely -- if ever -- happening like it should). I am tired, and I fear I'm consuming so much more than I am creating, but what else am I supposed to do? All of my creative energy is being pushed into the store, so when I'm home, I'm binging Netflix and reading books -- and any friend-making is virtually non-existent, because the energy simply isn't there. Instead, I'm relying on monthly Skype dates and weekly phone calls with long-distance friends,  plus visits and lunches and the occasional meet-up with an in-town acquaintance. I am trying, but it doesn't feel like enough. 

So here is my current plan: grace, grace, grace, and more grace. Grace upon grace, for others, but for me, too. I want to eat better, to live better, to write better, to be better, but sometimes? Good enough is all I can manage. This summer was meant to be lived more slowly than our other seasons, and for the most part, I think that's happening. So dinner doesn't always include a fresh vegetable, and we have yet to make a day trip to the beach. 

That's okay. 

You know what has happened? I've finished two seasons of Young and Hungry on Netflix. (Silly, but whatever. I wanted to binge watch a show this summer, and BOOM. Done.) I read nine books in June and am happily building my reading queue for July, starting with Kitchens of the Great Midwest. I Marie Kondo'd my closets, which was honestly all I could manage, and it's working for our home, so I'll count it a success. We've seen a couple of really great movies in the theatre, and we're walking around town when the humidity isn't too unbearable. We've made a list of home repairs we want to finish before the year's out, and I bought a new computer with earnings from the store. I'm slowly assembling a new Bookshelf staff, and -- lest I forget -- we took a pretty awesome trip to D.C. and spent some much-needed time with Jordan's family. We had some of our best friends over this past weekend for the holiday, and I slow-cooked ribs without burning down the kitchen. 

I haven't written this year like I wanted to, but I think when I look back, I'll realize I wrote enough: enough to get me through the hard months, and enough to remember the ups and downs I'll want to have on record when a new year rolls around. 

18/52 :: summer.

I've always had a love-hate relationship with summer. 

For one, I was a child who thrived on routine. School was my happy place. I loved home, too, don't get me wrong, but stick me at a desk for seven hours, hands clasped, learning from the books and teachers I adored? The definition of contentment. 

Summers can be rough. In the South, summers mean heat and humidity, air as thick as the sweet tea we drink. (And I don't like sweet tea, so you can see how I'd be at a disadvantage.) For a Florida girl, I'm also rather pale, hair bordering on a shade of red. Suntans aren't really a "thing" for me, and sunglasses pose a special difficulty for someone who's nearsighted. I was well into adulthood before I learned to just retire all denim for the entire season; jeans stick to sweaty legs, causing a unique sense of claustrophobia. Ask me to rank the seasons, and I would easily put summer at the bottom of the pack. 

But now I work retail. 

Autumn -- my favorite of all the seasons -- is now bustling, filled to the brim with activity. My own personal calendar virtually ends at October, when the store's calendar takes over. There is our town's One Book program, plus Black Friday and Small Business Saturday and Christmas shopping that starts after Halloween. I've had to kindly and gently explain to friends and family: If you love me, you will stop asking me to do anything from November 1 to December 31. My life no longer exists. 

So sure, fall has the cute clothes and the cooler temperatures, but it's a rough season for me personally. Perhaps this change has softened my heart to sweet summertime, because for the past two years? I have been all in. 

Give me all the shorts, tank tops, and baseball caps. Give me no make-up and put lemon juice in my hair. Take me to the coast; give me a large Coke in a styrofoam cup with crushed ice and a straw -- you know, the kind you can get for $.75 at a gas station. I want ice cream in all the flavors, and daylight until the sun's practically ready to come up again. Drive me somewhere with the windows rolled down and the radio blaring. (I'm oddly in the mood for country music.) Take me to a baseball game and dress me in red, white, and blue. Stick an American flag in my hand and feed me a hot dog. Sit on the front porch and shoot the breeze, even when there's no breeze to be found. 

In June, the store slows down, and people in Thomasville treat summer as if it's a verb, so Jordan and I practically have the city to ourselves. I kind of like it, and I think all of this makes it official: I love summer. 

Sure, when August rolls around I'll probably be in the middle of a heat stroke of some kind, but for now? I'm on board with this whole summertime thing. I get it now. 

Here, then, in the spirit of the new season is a little list of goals I've made for the next couple of months. A summer bucket list, of sorts. I'm keeping it simple, as the season requires: 

01. Take a day trip to the beach. 

02. Celebrate fourth of July with friends. 

03. Grill out. 

04. Sit on the swing with Jordan. 

05. Redo photo wall. 

06. Organize vacation photo albums

07. Complete a puzzle. 

08. Binge watch a new-to-us show. 

09. Save money for Taylor Swift tickets. 

10. Find a new, quick getaway spot. 

Happy summertime, friends. Let's make it a good one.

what's making me happy this week, 5.

Every so often, in addition to those 52 essays I'm supposed to be cranking out, I'm going to publish a small list of what's making me happy, a la one of my favorite podcasts, NPR's Pop Culture Happy Hour. Nothing major, just a new series to remind me to count my blessings. 

Here's what's making me happy this ridiculously long week: 

- Grace Helbig on YouTube. Am I too old to like Grace Helbig? I don't know. I did some Googling this week after finishing Mamrie Hart's You Deserve a Drink, and although I'd heard of Grace Helbig, I'd never watched one of her videos -- until Monday, when I spent the better part of my morning watching them at random (with some of Mamrie's and Hannah Hart's videos thrown in). I can't stop, and I'm not even sure why. They're oddly addicting? Someone explain to me the power of the YouTube video, stat. 

- New employees. No one teaches you how to be a boss, despite the number of mugs and tattoos I've purchased to the contrary. (There's literally a mug on my desk right now that says, "Girl, you are a boss." Some days, I need the reminder.) Saying goodbye to an employee -- especially a good employee -- feels a little bit like the worst, but you know? It's going to be okay. Maybe even better than okay, because this week, I've trained two new part-timers, and I think they're going to be just what our little store needs this summer. Training might be awkward and tedious, but I think it's going to be worth it. Hooray!

- Washington, D.C. memories. I have slight post-vacation depression, so basically I'm scrolling through pictures and wearing my Nationals' baseball cap everywhere it's socially acceptable. Apparently vacations make us happy when we spend time reminiscing, so... done.

- This video. I have nothing else to add, except this is why the Internet exists.

- Carrie Rollwagen. I think I was out of town the week this actually made me happy, but I never shared it here, and I want to. A few weeks ago, we hosted Carrie Rollwagen, author of The Localist, in our shop, and despite a smaller turnout than I would have liked, Carrie was lovely. (Her book, by the way, is equally parts delightful and convicting. Read it!) She was so fun to meet, and she had lots of encouraging and enlightening things to say about entrepreneurship and the book business; it's so helpful to realize I'm not doing this thing alone. Then, lo and behold, she went and wrote this incredibly kind review about our store. People can be the best.

- Sheona and snail mail. Speaking of people being the best, this week, I got a letter -- and actual, honest-to-goodness letter -- from a blog reader in Scotland. Can you believe it? Scotland! I never know who's reading this anymore -- blogs are going the way of the dinosaur, I think -- but Sheona from Scotland is, and I am so grateful for the letter she sent my way. Sheona, if you're reading this, thank you. You really, truly made my week. (And for the rest of you, consider this your weekly PSA to write someone you know letter. It is always worth the effort. Plus, Flannery O'Connor stamps debut today. Get on it.) 

And that's what's making me happy this week. June, let's be awesome, shall we?

17/52 :: the kathleen kelly dream.

Pssst: Since I wrote this post a few days ago, I've entered The Bookshelf to win a $100,000 grant from Chase. If you're so inclined, would you consider voting for us? We need 250 votes to move on the next round, and you can vote here. Thank you for your continued support of me and my dream. 

--

I've wanted to be Kathleen Kelly since before it was cool -- since I was about 15 years old, as a matter of fact. I watched her on-screen in her cardigans and Keds, and I thought: Hey! That's an achievable goal. I can do that. 

And you know what? I can. I didn't really think it was going to happen, but here I am, almost 15 years later, running a bookstore and wearing the occasional cardigan. Dreams do come true. They're just harder than anyone tells you they'll be.  

We started doing birthday parties at the store. We've only hosted two so far, but they're fun and chaotic, and never do I feel more like Kathleen than when I'm turning on the store lights and prepping for story time with the You've Got Mail soundtrack playing in the background. I actually enjoy working Saturdays -- and the occasional birthday party -- because that's when this job most feels like the movies. Kids are running around; customers come in who I know by name; we're busy, busy, busy. It's dream-like, no doubt about it. 

Tuesdays through Fridays tell a slightly different tale. Those days include countless meetings, long hours checking email (so many emails), updating social media, running to the bank and to the post office. My weekdays never seem to end, until suddenly, they do, and I'm never quite sure what I accomplished until I look back at my daily to-do lists.

I think, sometimes, I forget this was a dream of mine. I forget how lucky I am, how incredibly fun this all is. I forget, because it's hard. But I guess I want to remember -- in case one day it all comes to an end -- how much I've enjoyed this adventure.

One day, I'll be able to tell me children I owned a bookstore. Maybe they'll get the chance to work there during the summers, to be a part of the business themselves. Or maybe we'll be long gone from Thomasville, and the bookstore we'll be a part of our past. It doesn't matter, really. I'll be able to tell them I lived my dream, and I'll have evidence. It will prove, I hope, that they can live out their dreams, too.

So yes, there are bills and employees to train, and long, hard, chaotic days. But there are also Saturdays, when the You've Got Mail soundtrack reminds me: This is all just incredibly cool.

reading recap: may 2015.

I Was Told There’d Be Cake by Sloane Crosley. If there is a book full of humorous short stories and essays, I’ve read it (or it’s on my TBR list somewhere). So when Sloane Crosley’s I Was Told There’d Be Cake kept making its way around my social media feeds, I was on board. The title alone was enough for me. Unfortunately, I didn’t love this book as much as I wanted to, but never fear: It could be right for you. Crosely is a sarcastic storyteller, and if you’re looking for a Seinfeld-esque escape from reality, go ahead and put it on your list. Each essay stands alone, so you could easily pick and choose your favorites. I’d start with “You on a Stick,” Crosley’s hilarious maid of honor-inspired tale.  

Dead Wake by Erik Larson. There are a few authors I wish were required reading in schools: David McCullough, Steven Levitt, Jon Krakauer, Laura Hillenbrand. These authors make nonfiction, historical stories come to life, and students deserve to know just how interesting history and “real life” can be. Erik Larson gets a spot at the top of my list. I loved Devil in the White City – as an educator, you could do so much with the content of that book – and In the Garden of Beasts remains a Bookshelf customer favorite. His new book, Dead Wake, is about the sinking of the Lusitania, and the story sucks you in from the very beginning. Like most historical nonfiction, this isn’t a book you fly through, but it is a page-turner; despite already knowing the outcome, readers will want to discover every detail and story they can, and Larson obliges. 

How to Start a Fire by Lisa Lutz. Let’s hear it for the intelligent beach read, shall we? I like the occasional bit of “chick lit” (despite the horrendous moniker), but what I really like is just well done, clever, female-centric fiction. How to Start a Fire fits the bill. Sure, Lisa Lutz’s new novel is your next beach bag book, but it’s also chock-full of witty dialog, realistic portrayals of friendship, and heartbreaking romance. Anna serves as the ringleader for Kate and George, but Kate’s story is the one I found most compelling. The book follows the friendship of these three women from college well into adulthood, and you’ll be more than happy to tag along for the ride. I already mailed my copy to my friends for our traveling book club; I think they’ll all love it as much as I did. 

Me, My Hair, and I edited by Elizabeth Benedict. This book was fascinating. It was also one of my advanced reader copies last month, so you won’t see this one on our shelves until September. Me, My Hair, and I features the essays of 27 different women, each writing about their hair. And although the premise might sound dull or even a little odd, the essays each tackle other subjects, too, like race and feminism and culture and religion. The book would be the perfect selection for a book club, guaranteed to elicit conversation and the divulging of your own personal hair stories. (The fact that it’s releasing as a paperback original only sweetens the deal.)

Lessons in Belonging by Erin S. Lane. I reviewed Rachel Held Evans’ book Searching for Sunday back in April, and Erin Lane’s Lessons in Belonging serves as the perfect accompaniment. Lane is a pastor’s wife, but she’s also a divinity school graduate herself, and her views on church are refreshing; she doesn’t advocate abandoning the cause, but instead encourages readers to find – and sometimes fight for – their place there. I found myself nodding along in agreement chapter after chapter, and I took notes for future reference. Millennial Christians will be thrilled to find a voice that does them justice, and older generations will appreciate Lane’s perspective as well. (I think I might make my parents read this one next.) 

Save the Date by Jen Doll. Remember what I said about humorous essays? I’m a sucker for them. Save the Date has an eye-catching cover, and I was headed to the beach for a few days, so I grabbed a copy off our shelves. It’s funny and honest, filled with story after story about the weddings author Jen Doll has attended: destination weddings, her best friend’s wedding, hometown weddings, elopements, and more. Brides, here’s an idea: Gift a copy to each member of your wedding party. They’ll thank you later. 

Ella Minnow Pea by Mark Dunn. This was my book club’s pick for the month of May, and although it wasn’t the title I had originally voted for, I wound up loving it, and our group had a blast discussing it. The premise is unique, so bear with me: Ella Minnow Pea lives on the fictional island of Nollop, off the coast of South Carolina; the little island was named for Nevin Nollop, author of “The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog” (a sentence which incorporates every letter of the alphabet). But when letters start to fall off a memorial to Nollop, their usage is banned from the island, and the whole place runs amok. (Letters, too, begin to disappear from the novel itself, which is entirely entertaining and imaginative and lovely.) Ella Minnow Pea will have your book club debating religion and politics and free speech, but in the best possible ways. Read it, please. I think it’s important. 

This Is Your Life, Harriet Chance! by Jonathan Evison. Fans of Where’d You Go, Bernadette?, rejoice. Here’s a new book for you. Unfortunately, it doesn’t come out until September, but never fear: It will be worth the wait. This Is Your Life, Harriet Chance! offers a rare literary look at life from an elderly woman’s perspective; our protagonist Harriet is still reeling a bit from the death of her husband, but she’s not ready to go anywhere herself just yet. She’s got a lot of life left to live, so she jumps on board a cruise ship, only to discover her life might not be what she thought it was after all. This book is funny and memorable and sad and quirky and a little reminiscent of Stranger Than Fiction, one of my favorite movies of all time. Basically, mark your calendars for September. I loved this one. 

You Deserve a Drink by Mamrie Hart. Warning: I almost peed my pants from laughing while reading this book, but it’s also rather… foul? I often read excerpts of books aloud to Jordan, and I frequently had to self-censor several of these stories, so you’ve been warned. Mamrie Hart is most known for her YouTube show, “You Deserve a Drink,” but I’m not into cocktails or YouTube, so this title made it onto my desk based on a sales rep’s recommendation. Mamrie starts each chapter with a cocktail recipe, then follows with a story along the cocktail’s theme. The set-up is fantastic, and foul language and TMI aside, it’s hilariously funny. It’s not going to be one I’ll recommend to all of our customers, but I could see it being a fun gift for a college girlfriend or roommate. 

The Vacationers by Emma Straub. I don’t know why I’d never read this book. The Vacationers has a beautiful cover, and it was popular when it debuted last summer, but I just never got around to reading it. While on our own vacation to D.C., I picked up a hardback copy off the sale rack at Politics and Prose, and I’m so glad I did. (The book released in paperback this month, so you’re in luck, too.) Emma Straub weaves a beautiful story about a family vacationing off the coast of Mallorca in Spain; each character is seriously and realistically flawed, but you’ll find yourself rooting for them over and over again. I’m most impressed with Straub’s ability to magically tell the stories from multiple perspectives without ever feeling forced or distracting. This is a wonderful book, perfect for summertime reading.

16/52 :: you take the good, you take the bad.

You take the good

You take the bad

You take them both

And there you have

The facts of life.

The facts of life.

--

A couple of weeks ago, before our Washington D.C. trip, before my employee resigned, before the proverbial poop hit the fan, before, before, before, I told Jordan my new mantra was, "You win some; you lose some." That particular week, I had made huge progress in a meeting for our One Book program coming this fall, but I'd also sent out a store email with rather large errors and confused the dates and times for two big shop events. The old Annie would have beaten herself up over the mistakes, but the new Annie knows: In entrepreneurship, mistakes are inevitable and frequent. 

You win some; you lose some. 

So last week, while Jordan and I were finally in D.C. on a trip we'd been planning since November, it shouldn't have surprised me to get an email from an employee, resigning from her post as the shop's resident social media and event guru. This employee has been a life saver these past nine months, but retail isn't for the faint of heart, and turnover -- no matter how hard you try -- is high. These are jobs with big responsibilities and little pay, and I know often, The Bookshelf is a stop on someone's journey to a job that's bigger, better, more in line with their career goals. 

All of this, then, is just life, but that doesn't make the news any easier when it's 11:30 p.m. on your last night of vacation, and you're realizing the summer -- which was supposed to be laid-back and relaxing -- just got a whole lot more stressful. 

I have been scrambling this week to fill the position, to get people in the store who I think will love it as much as I do. And you know? It's been okay. I think that's what I'm learning from all of this: The good, the bad. It's going to be okay. Maybe not perfect, maybe not better than before, but okay. Problems are solvable, and if I learn to take things in stride, the little blows that come with this job won't be as earth-shattering -- they'll just be hiccups in the growth of my business. 

When I was younger, I would watch reruns of The Facts of Life on TV Land. I've been humming the theme song to myself for weeks: "You take the good; you take the bad; you take them both; and then you have..." The facts of life aren't easy, but they also aren't going anywhere; these aren't details and struggles we outgrow. 

Last month, my family was able to go to the beach together for a few days. It was incredibly life-giving and fun, but I watched as my dad handled stresses of both work and home -- even on vacation. My grandmother had taken a fall, and there we were, six hours away, unable to help or get there quickly enough. My dad didn't mope about the hours he had to spend on the phone or the time it took to handle those life emergencies. That's just it; they're a part of life, and they don't go away just because you're on vacation or you're not mentally prepared to handle them. 

This is life. And it includes trips to the hospital and emergency surgeries and employees who quit and visits to the beach and vacations with your husband and family members in poor health. It includes job interviews and afternoons paying bills and good books and burnt dinners and phone calls and texts and emails you don't want to receive. 

You take the good. You take the bad. You take them both, and you know? It's all going to be okay.  

spoken in the shop, vol. 22.

On books as temptation

Customer, with large stack of books in hand: "Someone ought to lock me up!"
Me: "You know, there are worse vices to have."
Customer: "True. The problem is, I'm going to drink at least a glass of wine with each of these."

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On a chocolate's worth

Customer, after eating one of our shop's truffles: "You know, when you said three dollars, I thought, 'How can y'all screw people like that?' But then I tasted it, and I understand."

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On "you are what you read"
Customer: "I'm reading this book you recommended, and all of the short stories are about infidelity. You're not thinking of pulling the plug, are you?"

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On Mother's Day gift-giving
Manager: "Are we getting a gift card today?" 

Dad: "Yes, we are making no decision." 

Son: "This is a decision." 

Dad: "No, a gift card is not a decision." 

 Son: "Yes, it is. I could have chosen a Target gift card or a Wal-Mart gift card or a Bookshelf gift card, and I chose The Bookshelf. It was a decision."

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On sneezing etiquette
"I must be allergic to something in here. I've gotta quit trying to stifle it; sounds like it's coming out the other end!"

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On one-stop shopping
"Oh my gosh, you have chocolate, too?  You're complete!"

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On fashion
Teenage girl to employee: "Oh, I love your necklace!"
Employee: "Well, thank you!"
Girl, mournfully: "You have such great style."
Employee: "Oh, thank you so much, but you do, too! I love your dress."
Girl: "Oh, my mom made me wear this."

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On destruction of property
Customer: "What's wrong with your chairs?"
Me: "Oh, I think sadly someone's begun peeling the leather off." 

Customer: "Well, they look like they've been mutilated."

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On the perfect present
"Cookbooks are the gift that gives back to you. Now my mom can make me something."

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On mission-making
Young girl: "Excuse me; where is your children's section?"
Me: "Oh, let me show you. It's this whole back part of the store, first picture books, then middle reader books, where your kind of books are."
Girl, wide-eyed, pauses, then claps hands twice. "Let's do this."