Last night I bought a gift card for my Mom for her birthday at one of those huge chain bookstores. The gal who sold it to me was young, brown hair, brown eyes, adorable. I kept my cool, but when confronted with big brown eyes, something is eventually gonna go wrong. The cutie handed me a pen and asked if I wanted to write the greeting on the gift card then and there. I calmly said no thanks (shoulda been smooth and said "this is for my Mom, I need some time to think of something nice"), but then caught a glimpse of her nametag and suddenly my fingers wouldn't work and I could barely handle the pen to sign the credit card receipt.
See, her name was Nicole and all I could think of was that Point Blank song. (Heh heh featured on their American Exce$$ album.) I escaped the store with my dignity (barely) intact.
Earlier in the evening at a used-book store I looked for Isaac Asimov's Foundation Trilogy, which I read in ninth grade but wanted to check out again after a recommendation by my