(Was your computer upload slow? Sorry, ha ha! Oh, please allow me these small amusements I have.)

.... gotten....

.... oh, what’s the point in drawing it out any longer: a JOB!

No, dumplings. Your peepers have not deceived you. You did indeed read correctly (unless you’re Dyslexic like me, but that’s another blog post altogether): I have gotten meself a job. A J*O*B. Also known, among the more refined set, as E*M*P*L*O*Y*M*E*N*T.

Another far less appealing alias it goes by is plain “work” – that very foreign thing which I have managed to avoid for so long, not allowing it to interfere with all that time I’ve spent lounging in bed and on the couch.

Never mind the fact that, as of yet (and if this was a box containing medicine or poison, this next part would be the very, VERY fine print; so fine it would be almost completely illegible) I’m not making any money from it. Satisfaction is my reward, and of that I have a lot.

Here’s the gory story of how I have gone from broke and unemployed to still broke but at least employed VIRTUALLY OVERNIGHT!

Shortly after my relocation to this hip, lively town of By George!, in a shameless display of nepotism, my mother’s cousin offered me a job.

So here I am, three days into it, and every day I get to fondle and run my fingers slowly up and down spines and just lose myself in the task at hand.

No, no ye dirty minded beasts. I’m not a masseuse. Or a chiropractor. I know I often THINK I’m some type of medical professional, what with all that useful knowledge and wisdom imparted to me by my much-loved and much missed Time/Life A – Z Medical Encyclopedia (hopefully still en route somewhere on the Atlantic Ocean between here and the shores of the United States and not missing forever). But no, these spines I refer to are not of the human kind.

You see, my boss is an avid book collector and dealer, and my glorious job is to assist him in getting the books in a data base from which it will be sold over the internet. (I have yet to part with a book that has been sold, and needless to say, I’m NOT looking forward to it, which probably doesn’t bode well for my future as a book dealer).

Walking into my boss’s beautiful house was, for me, the equivalent of walking straight into paradise: Not only has he been adopted by a large yellow Labrador who allows him to reside with her in his house (provided of course that he continues to dispense regular feedings, ample snacks and long walks on the beach), but floor to ceiling shelves heave under the weight of the thousands of books they hold.

Hundreds more books overflow into every available space, and thus some end up being neatly stacked on chairs while tables become cities with towering skyscrapers made of books. Books, books, and even more books fill every nook and cranny in his house, and I LOVE it.

There are new books, old books, rare books, used books. Art books, cook books, gardening books... novels, autobiographies, biographies, fantasy, and non-fiction. Every genre is covered. Yes, even my beloved How-To books!

There are cloth-bound first editions with yellowing, fragile pages, making my jaw drop in awe and wonderment.

The best of all are the autographed copies that fill me with reverence whenever I touch them, knowing that the same book I’m handling, feeling its precious weight in my hands, were held by the person who created the words and pictures contained within its covers.

That connection and imaginary kinship I then feel with the author and/or artist is a magical thing, and I naively cling to a quiet (but infinitely high) hope that one day some of that ability to create something that will last for a long time will rub off on me too, and that perhaps, in a distant future somewhere, another girl will hold a book written and signed by me, and be inspired in the same way, and that the cycle of creativity will continue to flow without interruption, into infinity.