Well, we moved.

Okay, we paid three guys to move us, and C and I scuttled around trying not to get in the way. Actually, we helped out. Because it’s by the hour, yo. So why sit on your ass when you can move things along. Riiiiiiiight?

Freaking exhausting.

But we and three non-English-speaking mammals moved with us.

We’re back in the only area of LA in which I’ve ever felt truly at home. I get why not everyone wants to live here, but that’s really just fine. In fact, stay out. Don’t want it getting too crowded. They’re bringing in a Target soon. Okay. I like Target. But I don’t want to see it from where I live.

Since before Christmas, we’ve been in an almost constant state of transition. First, we sort of miraculously found a new place to live. Then, we got a dog. Then, I started packing a couple weeks before we traveled to Ohio to be with C’s family, then continued packing once home for New Year’s (holy shit, that happened), then we moved, now C goes to Sundance, then to The Large Red Delicious to be on Broadway.

Meanwhile, I will continue to encourage Arlo to pee on the doggy pad in the courtyard of our new place.

To him, that square of fake grass must be an encyclopedia of dog history. C describes Arlo’s constant snuffling with the narrative “And then – and then – and then–”

But when he gets on that pad, he just. Freezes. Sometimes in awkward and hilarious postures. Like – WHAT THE HELL. WHY AM I HERE. WHAT AM I EXPECTED TO DO. WHAT? F THAT, MAN.

He’s got a 50% success rate, which for living here less than a week is pretty damn good.

But me, I’m a pad pro. Oh yeah. I know this ‘hood. I stalk the streets native-style.

Which is what I’ll focus on with C gone for the next months and months.

I shall endeavor to live my name. Dwell it up, Joy.