Good morning, Elaine," she said. The tall, dark-haired woman was standing at her locker in the woman's dressing area, smiling in anticipation of my returned greeting.

 "Good morning, um..." And there I stood, silent and stomped as to hername as well as the celebrity's name I had glued to my gym mate, which I had believed to be a helpful clue. Sadly, neither the identity of the star, or the woman, had yet emerged from my brain.    

Hi Pooch Pals!

So sorry I haven't been in touch sooner, but it's taken me a few weeks to train my owner and I haven't had a moment to myself. She is totally obsessed with me and as example; I have red smudges atop my head from the amount of times she kisses my noggin. We Jack Russell mixes are flexible, but there's no way I can lick that off in my personal daily wipe down. (Actually, when she leaves the house -- I am uncrated and can roam free -- I do manage to steal a few used wipes from the bathroom wastebasket. But still...)

A few years ago, and after two different workshops on "How To Write A Half-Hour Comedy," I completed television pilots, both of which I considered to be terrific and ready for bids by production companies. But when I received notes from my instructors, classmates, and even a Hollywood agent, I thought, Well that was fun, and tossed their comments in the trash and my months of work into a file cabinet.

Actually, the only person judging these various recipes was I, in the midst once again of switching from dinners purchased at supermarket hot bars to home cooking. My most recent dive into healthier and cheaper menus was inspired not by a New Year's vow, but through the writings of author Roxane Gay. 

was startled. She stared at me as if I had stepped on a hidden bomb and my body burst into hundreds of pieces. In a way, I had tapped into something dangerous: my anger. As I unleashed my fiery response to her complaint about me, instead of defending herself or fighting back, she did something unexpected: she apologized.