Feeling: silly
Listening to: NIN - We're in This Together
Reading/Watching: Lucky, by Alice Sebold. it's still knocking me on my ass every few pages.

The big, sweet, shaggy man who works with me at the bookstore has always reminded me of Jerry Garcia crossed with Bill Murray.

He is technically both too old and too young for me to call him "adorable", and since he's about five inches taller and outweighs me by a good sixty pounds, I have to adore him from afar. But I love how he seems bumbling and sweet, until he's helping out on a project, and somehow the man knows everything, without being condescending. So I've gotten into the habit of thanking him sweetly every time he helps me out, because we haven't exactly known each other long enough for me to give him a big bear-hug (something I have wanted to do several times, because he reminds me of my uncle who was one half of our sponsor couple for the wedding: Bartok and Marie's dad).

His name is Charlie. So after hearing myself chime, "Thank you, Charlie," for about the fourth time tonight, I had a quirky funny moment, remembering the way the Charlie's Angels chorus the exact same words. So I need to find a blonde and a brunette to say it with me, just to complete the trio.

Tonight, waiting for the store to close, I stood at the row of cash registers, devoid of customers, practicing high kicks and random dance-steps, singing along to the classical music CD playing, which cycled Grieg's "Solvieg's Song" through the speakers every hour or so. If any of my co-workers saw my little routine, they apparently deemed it normal enough not to deserve comment.

The people here rock.

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