Part of the reason I wanted a dog—why the house wanted a dog or so I like to clarify—was for the walks. I’d be forced to head outdoors and move the old bod, even when—especially when 99% of me wanted to sit like a lump reading The Hunger Games trilogy.

What wound up happening is just that. Nyla needs to be walked. And so I walk. But she’s also pathologically lappy. So when I am indoors—and I am as indoorsy as they come—and that 8-pound bundle of blond fur skibbles into my lap, I am not going anywhere. For ages.

We joke that having Nyla is like having a newborn. “I can’t get up, will you nuke that decaf for me please? I have a dog on my lap.” You’d think I was nursing the little beast.

I wuv Niles of the Northeast. Hallelujah, I have cleared the flaming hurdle of panicky regret. She graduates from training this week. She will receive a certificate. Get her picture snapped. Trainer James says she has “high aptitude,” even though she attacked him during our last session. Snarled and lunged. Oh boy, he took over. Stood me off to the side and took the leash, sat and stayed the little bitch until she obeyed him completely. I looked on, breathless with awe. If only I could do that with the children, I thought.

The photos in this post are apropos of nothing. I just liked the shots and am excited about my new Americana Lens for my Hipsta. It blurs the edges of the pics like a schmear of Vaseline, which allows me to pretend I have depth of field in my camera. What fun can be had for 99 cents. Plus the $150 for the phone, plus the $30 per month. Plus the initial cost of the Hipsta. But who is counting?

Oh, here’s something. My mother just called to tell me she’s worried about my cholesterol and that I “didn’t sound good” in my last post. Thanks Mom. I appreciate the undermining concern. How is it that at 42.5 years of age, stabbing myself in the eye with a sharpened pencil might be more soothing than conversing with my mother. I have sent her links upon links about cholesterol, even bought her books to try and explain where I am coming from with this thing so she knows not to clutch her heart when I tell her my total cholesterol is 286. Chris Masterjohn, Mother! For the love of God, Chris Masterjohn! Does she read? No. Does she click? Hell-to-the-no. But she’s worried I eat too much meat.

Oh Mother.

Anyway. I told her as much, but then I had no response in the end. I just seethed silently, surly as a teenager, then told her I had to go.  It looks like we will not be turning into one of those adorable mommy-daughter duos who shop and eat lunch together on a weekly basis after all. Thank God for friends, both real and imaginary.

Sweet Jesus, I didn’t mean to come here and be caustic. I just haven’t been here in so long that I thought it was high time I showed my sentences. I should have known that as soon as I started paying for the privilege, I’d blog less. It’s the masochist in me perhaps. I heart a good punishment.

Then again, I think in a way that I came here to celebrate. I just completed the fifth draft of my novel—eight NOs so far—and sent it off to my agent. In your face, Rejection! You know what they say, every NO is one step closer to the YES. And I am learning so much from the experience.

For instance, that after a bazillion read-throughs, one of my favorite characters in the new book is the mother. And I realize that if I weren’t a writer I might very well be a homicidal maniac. What can I say? I harbor a lot of rage. But as long as I look to the aggravating people in my life as creative inspiration—lumpen ore just waiting to be shaped into something a bit sparkly and fun—I can deal. Take anything negative in fact. It doesn’t have to be a person. It can be a situation. An ugly appliance, a dreary suburban winter. A crappy childhood. Gold, right?

Anyway, the sun is setting. Spike and Swamp Chicken are arguing downstairs. And my cardigan is cozy. Now where did I put my reading glasses? It’s time to curl up with a tall glass of egg yolks and cuddle up with Dichotomy Dog.

xoxo