When freakishly cold weather prevents you from taking your dog for a walk and you decide to let him race around the hallways of your apartment building because you can't take another day trapped inside watching him gnaw the cabinet knobs, I suggest that before you step into the hall, you take the time to brush your teeth. And wear socks. And a bra.

Because when you lock yourself out carrying nothing but a Nylabone and a leash, it will make a better impression on your elderly neighbor if your request to use her phone doesn't waft out of your mouth accompanied by that early morning Diet Coke & dead catfish funk. Nor will she be impressed by your Tic-Tac nipples poking through the fabric of your "Sir Pokes-A-Lot Fencing Club" t-shirt*.

*Yes, this is an actual item of clothing that I own. And that I paid full price for.

The leg humping has begun. You just grow up so fast... (tear)

RIP, fake marijuana plant. RIP.

I totally lied again today. I told my neighbor that I'd carefully selected you from a breeder instead of spilling our dirty, overcrowded little secret. Because I've learned that when I utter the words "pet store", we are always met with the same expression of pity--for me because I purchased a living thing in a strip mall and for you because your obviously inbred puppy mill DNA looks less like a double helix and more like a tangle of coat hangers.

To listen to the experts like Cesar Millan, Animal Planet, or that loud guy at PetSmart, the only appropriate way to purchase a dog is to find a breeder who will use terms like "whelp" and "sire" and, um, "breeder" and expect you not to snicker OR to swoop into an underfunded animal shelter (which is apparently all of them) and leave with a hulking, square-headed beast named Mr. Sniffles whose tragic backstory involves being set on fire and killing a family of four. With a handgun.

So I'm sorry, Pigpen. I'm sorry that by liberating you from the PET STORE, that sucking hellmouth beside Orange Julius, I inadvertently continued to fund the PUPPY MILLS*, ensuring that another generation of animals will be taken from their mothers, crammed into cages, and forced to support themselves by making counterfeit leather goods.

I'm doing my best. Please don't shoot me.

*To me, Puppy Mills sounds like a gated community. I bet they have a pool there.

I know you're in that friendly, glittery puppy stage where you looooove everyone, like, the mostestestest but could you please be a bit more selective? So that the next time I have to take you outside at some unholy, paid-programming filled hour, you don't take off down the darkened street towards the twitchy-looking man carrying a six pack and a Candy Land board game?

I find myself repeating everything I say to you, in sing-song, double-dutch tones ("Not in the hamper! Not in the hamper!" or "You drew blood again! You drew blood again!"). This is the same way I speak to foreigners.

Sometimes, when you're barking at me and I'm yelling at you, I like to pretend that we're the English writer/Portuguese housekeeper storyline from Love Actually and we're really saying the same things to each other, just in different languages.

I also know it's just a matter of time before I'm sent to live in a group home.

OK, these? Are delicious. They taste like peanut butter and meat.

Even if the veterinarian is an adorable Andrew McCarthy-style prep star who laughs politely at your rabies jokes* and stands so close to you that you detect a hint of Country Apple shower gel** it is impossible to continue flirting with him when you abruptly realize that you have a still-warm baggie of poop*** in the pocket of your coat.

*Never underestimate the power of a well-timed 'foam at the mouth' remark. Yes, I'm still single...why do you ask?

**It could have been actual apple juice. There was a small yellow stain above his Vineyard Vines belt but--for the sake of later vet-induced fantasy--I did not consider the possibility that it was anything that couldn't be sold in a juice box.

***Butt nuggets courtesy of Pigpen, as if knowing the source made it any less distracting.

On Dr. Phil today, his smug, salmon-lipped* wife is trying to make over five average Hanes-clad, hot flashin', White Rainin' women, without actually having to touch any of them because, ew, working class.

This process involves the magic of faaaaaashionista Steven Kajagoogoo, the apparent removal of their eyebrows ("Honey, makin' facial expressions is what ages you.") and a soldering iron.

How are these chicks supposed to maintain this lifestyle back in Owl Scrote, Ohio, where they don't have personal chefs or celebrity trainers or gay people? When Mrs. Phil's indentured servant prepared appetizers involving butter lettuce, you could practically hear them thinking "But that's TWO SEPARATE MEALS, y'all!".

*Not 'salmon' as in a J. Crewy color palette. I mean her Restalyn-enhanced gob looks like it has been constructed of two entire fish. The bottom portion of her face is like a giant, talking Pisces symbol.

From the poppin' fresh bite marks extending from my elbows to my cuticles, I can assume that you don't dig your new car seat. Personally, I think you look like a tiny fighter pilot. Or like you're doing something unspeakable with Lambchop.

You were unsupervised for approximately 8 minutes this morning--a non-consecutive 8 minutes, might I add--while I brushed my teeth, took the most ineffective shower short of just Swiffering myself (not a euphemism...), and started a load of my OWN laundry (which has not been done in two weeks, explaining why I've worn this same "Ghost in the Machine" t-shirt long enough to completely obscure Stewart Copeland's face beneath a layer of Iams Puppy Food Flav-A-Gravy and my own endless tears).

So, my precious Destructo-Beast...how did you find time to shit behind the entertainment center (on the surge protector, for max sanitation difficulty), shred US Weekly into a pile of Kitson-colored ribbons, and break a piece of Jonathan Adler pottery--the ONE decorative item I own that was not purchased on a clearance endcap at Target?

Clearly in order for us to work, I need either a Boxer-sized Baby Bjorn or a studio audience to console me with their synchronized "awwwwww" sounds as I'm wondering how far I can push a paper towel into the electrical outlet without having to use the "burn victim" tag in future posts.

Why has it taken me so long to notice that Anderson Cooper looks like a Weimaraner?

The two of them could probably produce fertile offspring.

Confidential to William Wegman: Please promise me that you would be the one who photographs the Cooperaner (Weimerson?) puppies. You would do a much better job than Anne Geddes, who would just wrap them up in a giant lettuce leaf or something.

While you don't seem to have any difficulty pooping while you're being watched, I do. Please. Can't you play with your toys for four minutes while I, um, send Wicket back to Endor? Because for two weeks I've had to do it at the gym and I'm reasonably sure that unless this stops, I'm going to get an unfortunate nickname, like Buster Brown or Mudbutt or 'that creepy woman who is always pooping here'.

I'm not really sure why I own a fake marijuana plant, but I do wish you would stop knocking it over and dragging it around the family room. Without the tasteful rattan basket, it will just look tacky.

Confidential to Showtime: My apartment is properly equipped, should you like to film an episode of Weeds here. I even have a House of Pain CD.