Instead of bricking over the door, I sketched. A lot. Like while I watched TV with Henry. Who did not approve my drawing of his feet. For the record.
Then the dog woke up, and made me walk him. Jerk.
(This was before he had to be Coned. He's much better now, thanks for asking! He has no more need for a cone, and it looks like we've avoided the need for surgery. His vet declared him the healthiest fourteen-year-old dog she'd ever seen. AT LEAST fourteen, we reminded her. He could be much older. He could be the Methusaleh of dogs.)
I also sketched Izzy. She still hasn't forgiven me. It's actually a flattering portrait.
(Charlie sleeps a lot.)
Then I was all, what do I draw now? And my living room was like HELLOOOOO. So okay.
At the end of last week I went on an audition. Of all things. I thought I was a writer who never had to put on pants? Except to walk the dog? And even then a longish coat will suffice? And now I'm being called on to put on mascara and emote in front of a camera*? (*Magic soul-catching box.) Next week I'm going on another audition. One that is totally unrelated to the first one. I apologize for being so cryptic but this is all very puzzling to me. I hope to tell you all about the goings-on when the results are in. And I'm on BROADWAY!
(p.s. not Broadway.)