Recently, as my new memoir was debuting, some friends asked if I had plans for me to do a book signing at CostCo.

I do not.

But this raised a whole host of questions for me:

  • Where would the table go? It seems like anywhere you put it in a CostCo, you’re just gonna end up getting banged around by carts filled with watermelons and car batteries. Sure, there’s all those little aluminum stands for food vendors, but those are treated with care and respect, because they’re offering up pizza roll samples for free. I’m offering up humorous tales of a life poorly lived for $19.95.


  • How would I avoid being the point person for directions? I can already picture some old lady yelling, “Where’re the corn dogs?” at me. I mean, admit it – you know you’ve asked the DirecTV guy or the cellphone chick where to find that 96-pack of condoms.


  • How many people come into a CostCo hoping to score a personally inscribed book by someone who isn’t a Kardashian?


  • Even if they DO want a signed book, how patient are people willing to be when there’s a sale on caskets two aisles over? (‘Cause, you know, if you’re in the market for a casket, tick-tock.)


  • How would I do a reading at CostCo? Climb onto the end cap of Roombas and pretend I’m the town crier at a Renaissance Faire?

Don’t get me wrong, I loves me some CostCo. (My husband, who likes to gamble from time to time, calls CostCo my casino.) But if I’m going to do a reading and signing, I much prefer the more civilized, less harshly lit environment of an actual bookstore. Because you almost never get knocked off a pallet of Sour Patch Kids by someone driving a Rascal.