I’m attempting to become more organized, dare I say professional? in my real life.  I have a Blackberry now, which has only been lost three times and has only had one near-fatal injury in the two months it’s been with me.

Nothing to worry about, though.  I’m pretty good at fixing broken technology.

And I can change my own oil.

So the Blackberry is clearly not making me More Professional, but iCalendar sure is. Every night, I sit down and I plug in all the shit I have to get done the next day, and that syncs to my phone and that buzzes like a gaggle of hornets in my pocket every time I forget to do something, and if Blackberry offered a small electric shock with every calendar reminder, I’d be the most effective person in the whole world, or at least have the tallest hair.

I’ve started working part time, from home, which is so ludicrously impossible I can’t even tell you but my daughter has figured out that when momma is “doin’ hers woik*” she can pretty much do whatever she wants, and whatever she wants usually ends up being testing the laws of gravity, thermodynamics and common sense with little more than all of the good toilet paper and the only clean toilet in the house.  I suppose my income could go to paying for daycare, but it’s so much more fun to fork it all over to the plumber, right?  You hardly get to see any ass-crack at daycare these days.

Taking this job has meant that I’ve had to give up a few other things, and obviously this blog has been one of them, but I’ve also put washing (insert your choice of the dishes/our laundry/my children/the baseboards/myself/all of the above) on the backburner just until I find my feet and get into the flow of being gainfully employed again.  But thank god for that iCalendar, man.  That bitch is keeping me on task.

Like, how it reminded me yesterday that I actually paid good money to go to a Storytelling seminar tonight in Gastown with, um, this guy?

Yeah, that guy.  And those are just the books I could find in this pigsty.  And by reminding me, it reminded me to totally inconvenience my neighbor at the very last possible second by making her babysit for me.  No wonder she’s moving away.

I’m just about as excited for this thing as I was a few weeks ago when I went to hear Chuck Palahniuk tell a few stories and sign a few books, which was awesome because ohmygodseriously, Chuck to the Palahniuk people, and awesomely horrifying because getting the Teen Girl Squad** together is a whole lot like mixing the most ridiculously cute baking soda and the silliest vinegar together.

Which actually isn’t horrifying at all to the people doing it, in fact it’s kind of rad and we want to do it all the time, but it’s apparently fairly traumatic for the 20-something angsty I-drink-soy-chai-and-smoke-cloves wanna-be writer who had to sit near us. Someday, woman, your uterus is going to betray you, and hard, and karma will remember us and your big steaming hot bag of scorn and I will be standing right there when it happens saying NEENER NEENER and also asking you to shut your kid the fuck up with my eyes and the better part of the left side of my body.

And since I’ve been all on this Going Out For The Night But Calling It Professional Development Because I’ve Duped The Donor Into Thinking I’m Kind Of A Big Deal On The Internet kick, when in reality the only person I’m a big deal to on the internet is the operator of of little eBay store where they sell my favorite and impossible to find elsewhere girl’s dresses and I assure you, I am a very big deal to that woman, I’m thinking about going to the Chicks Who Click conference in Vancouver at the end of June. Because seriously, if going to a conference is what it takes for me to get out of this house for the day, sign me the fuck up, yo. Hell, I still have my Leia outfit, and they have Star Con up here, don’t they?

But sadly enough, while I’m all busy trying to justify reading Fight Club for the purposes of writing corporate web copy, which now that I say it out loud actually makes a good deal of sense, my daughter is just about to get fired from the only job she’s ever had. A job which, mind you, pays her in outfits.  And she’s getting fired simply because she grew, so I think I’m going to demand some workmen’s comp, which I imagine will get paid out in capri’s and halter tops.

But lucky for us, we have two photo shoots this month and even though I’m so busy stalking crazy gay men all over Vancouver to, oh, I don’t know, read the manual that came with my camera, the first of our photo shoots turned out pretty freaking magnificently, if I do say so myself.

And I got to skip out on an entire afternoon of work to take them.  I love living in a different country than either of our bosses. 

*And yes, she says “woik” because she is clearly a little old woman who lived in Brooklyn until she was 11 and then moved to Philadelphia until she was 18 and then went to college in Boston and then moved back to Brooklyn to live out the rest of her days.

**If you’re cussing me out right now for killing your eardrums, well, I tell you guys all the time to hover over links and pictures first, but you never listen.