I'm carrying a pen in my hair again.

Life and work is going well, for those of you who didn't receive an update phone call this weekend. (If you aren't family, you probably didn't get a call. Two exceptions come from the "Melissa Basically Is Family Clause" and Lemon Drop hearing about the creepy guy who tried to pick me up on the bus. Lemon Drop, as he personally pointed out, used to be the not-actually-creepy guy who would fake-hit on me, so this was also appropriate. Also some people just technically called me first before I could make up a fake rule to justify talking to them. End digression.)

I won't begin rehearsals until August 23, though I have my first production meeting tomorrow, so I've been put to use in the box office. Today I got over my fears of answering the phone by doing so all day and only retreating to the back to briefly check paperwork. (Side question: Should I be alarmed by my love of filing? I think it stems from all that early exposure to the Dewey Decimal system and reshelving--thanks librarian mother.) I transfer calls, sell tickets, give out what might be proper directions to places, and generally use all the charm I have to mask my frustration when people can't just pick a seat already jeez. I need to fill out my bio sheet so someone in PR will know to schedule a brief photo shoot so my picture can go on the wall of current employees. I also need some advice as to what credits to include and how to look (with special attention to my hair, as I never know what to do with it besides use it to hold writing utensils.)

I'm sort of dizzy in a "can't believe I'm here" way, my reactions slowed as I sit by a pool, doubting that their 5' mark actually reaches 5' (ignoring the obvious way to find out) and wondering how long the tropical variety flowers will bloom: Just this month? Past Halloween? Up to Christmas?

I have made friends and have a consistant ride to work. I have ridden the bus to work as prep for the bus ride to church (though it did not prepare me for anyone--creepy or otherwise--to the the vulnerable moment of being stuck on public transportation wearing a skirt and heels as an invitation for phone number solicitation. I apologize for any and all names, personal details, and/or vaguely amusing stories that may be offered to strangers as fake proof that I'm off the market until I have time to purchase a bit of strategically placed bling as a defensive move. "You caught my eye, if you know what I mean"--please, buster. Sit on your side of the bench and stop staring at my legs as you try to find the perfect line to make me instantly hand over my phone number. Rant over.)

I have a bed, which is beyond exciting, especially to consider that I'm receiving with the frame the "good" matress (as described by the current owner). On top of that, the bed apparently might need a paint job, a thought which reappeared in my brain the moment the book's narrator mentioned his furniture painting classes that had led to painting odd things, like socks, on desks. So now I want to paint socks on my soon-to-be-mine bed. (There should be sufficient time between now and actually taking possession of the bed for this to leave my system. Or gain a diagram.)

My cellphone tells me it's handled over sixty phone calls in the past week, all without being named (I keep coming back to Rufus, but it's too blue to be a true Rufus) and most when I didn't have to pay for them...which, I suppose, is exactly why I paid for what I paid for. The temperature is currently lower humidity than usual and someone just turned the light on in a room at the top of the Meritz. I'm basically out of paper and a bird is singing in the first tree I've fallen in love with yet.

Perhaps I'm more slightly dizzy as I realize I haven't eaten since lunch at one and seven hours is, bouncy metabolism and all, quite some time to not refuel.