I have a problem with bookstores. They are full of books. It is a little-known but extremely important fact that all books want to go home with me. I am also trying to reduce my spending. Thus: problem.

Last night, Brent foolishly took me into a bookstore. The first twenty minutes went well. I resisted all the books I already knew I wanted because I have them in my handy folder of books I want to buy later when another month’s worth of reward cards arrives in the mail. No one seems to have stealthily come out with a new book that I MUST HAVE NOW, although that pesky Neil Gaiman came close. I have to add the one I saw to my folder.

It was all going swimmingly. Brent happily browsed the science fiction titles while I ranged over the rest of the store. Until.

There I was, minding my own business in the children’s section, idly considering things that T.R. and I might enjoy reading together, when a picture book jumped off the shelf and mugged me. It was the top shelf, so the book hit me hard. It’s about a cat, so it dug in its claws. I had no choice.

Do not look at this book. You will need to pore over the gorgeous collages. You will consider unexpected blobs of purple in the face of a cat. You will ponder haiku.

Unless, of course, these things make you extremely happy and feed your soul.