Well, not really. At least I hope not.
It’s been a while since I’ve stopped at the Har Mar Barnes & Noble (for my out-of-Twin Cities readers, Har Mar is just the name of a mall) to check out the used book section and pick up the latest issues of a few of my favorite magazines. [The part where I should really subscribe to these rather than buying them at B&N is a whole other matter.] I didn’t have anything else planned for the evening or other errands to run, so I decided to swing by on my way home from work today. So far, so good.
I picked up a few magazines (Stamper’s Sampler Take Ten, Scientific American, Scientific American Mind), then headed over to used book section. I didn’t find any of the books I’m particularly looking for at the moment, but found another book in a series I’m collecting and a book I think my dad might like. I browsed the regular mystery section just to see if anything struck me, and I did find a new-to-me author with a series that sounds intriguing. All is still good.
Then I remember a book that’s been languishing on my Amazon list for a long time, and since my birthday was now about a month ago and I didn’t receive it as a gift despite its highest priority designation, I figure I can finally get it for myself. Great! Except that I started reading the introduction on my drive home (I had a lot of long lights to sit through; I don’t read and drive) and now I don’t want to put it down! Oh, the book? Girl Sleuth: Nance Drew and the Women Who Created Her.
Why is this a problem? Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows arriving at my doorstep tomorrow morning and the spoilers I need to avoid like the plague until I’ve finished reading it, of course. Why did I have to pull this book out of my B&N bag to browse while at a standstill? Why didn’t I pull out an innocent magazine with its nice short articles instead?
Well, at least I have something to look forward to, perhaps something that will help me read Deathly Hallows a little faster so by Monday morning I’m not a total zombie when I arrive at work.