Sorry, sorry, sorry for the blogio silence, it's just that I somehow got myself a real job, not at the kids detective agency (pictured above), sadly (though how amazing would that be?), but at a big-girl bank by the name of Wells Fargo. And while I like the work, and I'm thrilled by the regular dollars, the sudden onslaught of regular working hours and meetingsmeetingsmeetings and the office coffee and the "conduct training," it all just sort of threw me for a loop for awhile there. Basically all I could manage to do for the last four months was:

6am: Get up.
6:10: Drink cups and cups of ambition alone in the quiet still-dark.
6:20: NPR.
6:30: Walk the squeeziest dog in the world.
7:30: Leap into the shower
7:32: Apply makeup (what? who?).
7:40: Iron slacks.
7:45: Don slacks.
8: Walk to the casual carpool pickup spot (each unique snowflake of a ride described in 140 characters or less via Twitter).
9: Work, work, work (right alongside the great and awesome and awesomely talented Annie, lucky!).
5:30pm: Walk to the bus station.
6:10: Disembark at the top of the Oakland Rose Garden.
6:10 to 6:15: Walk through the Oakland Rose Garden, sniffing and smiling.
6:20: Home again.
7: Eating.
9:30: Yawning.
10: Bed.

Notice that there's no naps in that schedules, none. Weaning myself off the 3pm nap was one of the hardest things I've ever had to do -- there were some real zombie days in the beginning there, lots of shuffling and "huh?"ing.

When I was first considering taking the job, a friend of a friend (who works at the company) said hopeful things about how the hours are sane enough that you can actually do other things with your life, but he warned that it would take "about four months" before I would work up the stamina to be able to do anything beyond stare at things during my off hours. And today? Is my exact four-month anniversary! And so, Hi.

In other news, I'm back to desperately writing about Desperate Housewives. And! I appear to have gotten myself shangboozled into another reading (and ohh, just typing those words gave me a wooze of panic):

Opium's Literary Death Match
Friday, October 12, doors open at 7pm
The Swedish American Hall
Tickets: $15 (price includes the latest copy of Opium)

The unfairly talented Daniel Handler will be anchoring the lineup, along with Wesley Stace and Gary Kamiya (whom I've never met, but I really have a good feeling about those guys). And of course I'm going to be there, all drunk and sweaty and nerve-poisoned, and who wants to miss out on that? Really, I could use your strong, honest-work-coarsened hands, both to offer soothing pats/sippables and to bring the noise when it comes to the clap-o-meter portion of the competition. Here's hoping!

Also: My good friends The Kids Are Alright have written the world a song about blogs, and love. You're welcome!

(PS: My diary has officially moved over to my official evany.com website. Let's meet up over there!)

(PS: My diary has officially moved over to my official evany.com website. Let's meet up over there!)