Work clothes shmerk clothes

I currently sit at my new desk. It is a symphony of particle board and wood laminate. It maintains its regal shape by a system of dowels, cams, and lusty screws that twist to the sultry dance of the allen wrench.

It is a wonder.

And it's in my living room. Have you seen my apartment? No? Well, it's bigger than the Beacon St. place, MUCH bigger than the hovel on Queensberry Street, but alas, there are no extra rooms yearning to become offices. Luckily, the living room is FREAKIN' HUGE! and my rather large Ode to Laminate fits nicely in one corner without disturbing the natural flow of life amongst my fellow apartment dwellers.

I'm pretty sure I'll feel a disturbance. I'm the one who works at home. From home. IN home. Hm. Can I do this? I already survived the big Benefit Gala Whooziwazzit last Monday evening. I dressed myself up and kept my heels on and shook hands with as many people as possible, gleaning pieces of their stories from my co-workers. I sipped champagne and passed up the refill, ate strawberries dipped first in white, then milk chocolate and decorated to look like they wore tuxes. I made sure everyone had a good time. If they didn't, I let them tell me why. I told approx. 620 women where to powder their collective noses.

And now, in stark contrast to my heels and gentlewomanly ways, I sit in my pj's and pipe information into a big database. Next I send letters all over. After that I get to learn the true meaning of my job, which is actually many many jobs rolled up into one that should take up 20-30 hours of my week.

I'm thinking I'll put a suit on every day for this week. Y'know, 'til it sinks in.

staccato fermata

staccato:

1.	shortened and detached when played or sung: staccato notes.

2.	characterized by performance in which the notes are abruptly disconnected: a staccato style of playing.

fermata:

1.	the sustaining of a note, chord, or rest for a duration longer than the indicated time value, with the length of the extension at the performer's discretion.

2.	a symbol placed over a note, chord, or rest indicating a fermata.*

panic attacks:

1. staccato fermata



*Thank you Dictionary.com

Now that I'm over myself...

I have to tell you how beautiful the wedding was, how blue-sky 18th century American it was. How amidst opulent surroundings (and food to which I would build altars), there was my stunning Sus in her simple, elegant dress, entirely herself, entirely joyful.

While I dodged social bullets, I got to talk with Liz, my old guitar teacher, for a good long time. I got to catch up with Meredith and Rob, Sus's sister-in-law, various old friends of Sus's... I got to slow dance with my beautiful boyfriend, who, as always, maintained his sparklingly gentlemanlike manners. He watched me and celebrated for me as I was celebrating.

The day after the wedding there was a slightly awkward trip to the Honey Pot Hill Apple Orchard. It was completely slammed with families taking advantage of a gorgeous, summer-like autumn day on Columbus Day weekend. The apples seemed ready for us, waiting patiently in heavy clusters. The first one I tasted was hot on one side from the sunlight, the other side tart and cold.

I walked with my friends, but often couldn't talk for fear of letting something monstrous out.

And on Tuesday I got more time with Sarah and Kristin (and Meredith, who works so close to my apartment that she might as well work in my armpit). I got some good quality SarahandJo time, catching up on all the things a person can't quite speak about in letters or postings.

So, it was a confusing weekend. And because I'm obnoxiously fragile these days, I'm having a hard time sorting out the hurt from the joy. I hate the ambiguity. I hate feeling out of control. I miss my friends so much and we had so little time.

I had some cool-ass shoes to wear for the wedding, though. I'll cling to that.

TAOTA: The Attack of the Acronyms

DBT: Dialectical Behavioral Therapy. Thursday nights at five. The idea is to take emotions like “my Dad pisses me off” and keep them from turning into “I’m a jerk for hating what my dad did and deserve horrific punishment.” Also supposed to give me control over: hair-pulling, obsessive cleaning, panic attacks… It’s group therapy, so it sucks.

IRS: Internal Revenue Service. They think I made money last year. They want the money I have now. Boy, will they be disappointed when they see the Sacajawea coin collecting dust in my piggy bank’s pink ceramic foot.

EMDR: No idea what it stands for anymore. It’s a type of therapy that’s supposed to help archive traumatic memories in a safer place than, say, right nextdoor to your fight or flight instincts. The goal is to reduce nightmares, make many of my memories “less present,” remove my hair trigger. I started a week ago and we only got to the “let’s rip everything wide open and stare inside” stage. Didn’t quite make it to the re-filing. Might explain the panic attacks’ increasing frequency, but that’s just a guess. This therapy currently SUCKS MY HUGE MISSHAPEN WHITE ASS.

TCMF: Terezín Chamber Music Foundation. My new employer! I feel like my life will level out a bit once I have more dependable hours. Do take a look at the website I’m hell-bent on renovating.