Oops, in retrospect, that was sort of a personal-space invasion, I suppose
So I couldn't find my just-purchased, hard-to-find, special-ordered Russian cookbook, and had despairingly concluded that I had left it at HEB when using it as my master ingredients list in the Great Borshch Endeavor. That is, I had concluded that, in truest Peril style, I had managed to lose that cookbook before even managing to cook a single Russian recipe out of it.
Then I stopped in at Java Dave's to grap a quick cuppa, and I'm chatting with Miss Eileen the Philippeen (one of the baristas and, by this time, a personal friend), when suddenly she says, "Oh, oh, Mr. Pierce, I keep forgetting -- wait here a second..." She rushes back behind the counter and emerges waving the cookbook. "Is this yours?"
I let out a whoop of delight, which would have been an excellent place to stop. Unfortunately, without even really thinking about what I was doing, I reached out in mid-whoop, took her face in both hands, leaned down, and soundly smooched the top of her head.
[sigh] This physical-touch orientation thing is such a bloody social handicap. Fortunately, Eileen is a very nice persion, and she accepted both the smooch and the subsequent humble apology with cheerful good grace. But...good Lord, Pierce, you have to get a clue socially.
Too bad the Troika weren't there to pronounce me a stariy durak. This is one time I had it comin'.