"What up, Sis?"

"Have you told Mom yet?"

"No. And you better not either."

Exactly what I was going for. Bribe material. "Fine, I won't if you do me a favor..."

He promised by the next morning he'd have a site up for me.

www.ISpottedYourDog.com And if you see the brown fudgy dog with the polka-dot tongue, snap a pic, upload, and let me know where you spotted her!

I had totally forgotten about the giant donuts. The BIG things would just have to wait because I felt I could finally be on to something REALLY BIG.

Chapter 37.

DAY 9-MORNING.

Somebody bought my future husband and me a frying pan from our Target registry already!!!!! Thank you, Jessica, YOU ROCK! The email notification was such an awesome thing to wake up to-as opposed to the reality of not having a job OR a best friend anymore, and not being any closer to finding Mr. WTF with only five days left, and battling it out with a Victoria's SecretS modelS. Although she wasn't at the Bob Baker marionettes. Could it be possible that I finally had the edge?!

Cooper came through with the website(!) so I rode out slowly and put my posters up all over the dog parks in Laurel Canyon, North Hollywood, Griffith Park, and Silverlake. While there, I showed pics, and asked around, but no one had seen the dog with the polka-dot tongue. My last stop was Runyon. I walked in a little-no time for a full-on hike, as I had decided to go ahead and meet Mark's gallery connection at the indie crafts fair at 5:00. But at least a little scoping out of the joint. When I passed the stables where the three-legged goat was chomping on hay, I saw it.

A brown dog. Who looked just like the pic. With I THINK a spotted tongue!

OMG OMG OMG!!! Stay calm; it could just be the monocle talkin'. The closer I got, the more convinced I was. Except this dog wasn't with Mr. WTF, and she ran off to play with a posse of other dogs before I could do a full-on tongue inspection.

"Excuse me, is that your dog?" I asked a cute nerdy arty guy with glasses as thick as mine used to be.

"Yeah, she is," he answered, then called out, "Lilabelle, play nice," as she was jumping excitedly on a Goldendoodle.

I launched into the "stori" I had told Sandi about my cousin's dog, but this time added that the dog had gone missing. "Yours looks a lot like his. Here..." I showed him the picture of the dog.

"Wow, she does. Which one do you think is the evil twin?" he joked.

I laughed. "Oh, my cousin's for sure! She's wreaking havoc in my life-well, his life. Does Lilabelle have any brothers or sisters?"

"I rescued her, so I wouldn't know. I like your shirt," he said.

Oh, I was wearing this: "I like your tattoo," I said, pointing to his forearm. "What is it?"

"They're numbers in a connect-the-dots drawing."

"Very cool. Mind if I Instagram it?"

"Not at all."

So I did. (#connectthedots, #runyoncanyon) Back to the biz at hand. "Well, if you happen to see your dog's evil twin," I said, "please give me a shout-out through this website." I handed him one of my posters.

"Www.ispottedyourdog.com? That's really smart. I'm sure you'll find her. Good luck."

"Thanks."

Despite almost being pulled over and issued a SLOWING ticket, I got home in time to get ready to meet Al at the crafts fair. S.H.A.R.I. was sitting at the living room table autographing some of her pinup pics. The pungent smell and the squeak of the Sharpie running over the photos in her loopy handwriting made me nauseous. I didn't say a word to her, took the kids out for a short walk, and when I returned, didn't say anything either, even when she asked, "Where are you going?"

Her voice was totally irritating. Or earitating.

I kissed Toupee and Boo goodbye and opened the door to go. But then I remembered the SHIRT. And the TAPES from Mr. WTF. I couldn't leave them at the apartment.

If I knew what was about to happen the rest of the day and night, I wouldn't have left the apartment myself. I should have just stayed locked in my room for a very long time.

Chapter 38.

DAY 9-LATE AFTERNOON.

The Hollywood Craft-Tastic Fair was way cool, ultra-crafty, and supah-Tastic! There were totally cute vendors in their groovy booths, awesome knit hats, letterpress cards, silkscreened posters and T-shirts, belt buckles made from car parts, and large hand-colored blowups of prison mug shots from the '20s. Rows and rows of booths were lined up on one side, and on the other I couldn't have been more delighted to see (as best I could, rockin' my monocle!) a line of food trucks. Maybe the DELHICATESSEN truck would be there?!

I wandered, looking at everything, savoring everyone's amazing expressions of creativity. I wanted to stock up on inspiration and hold onto it until I could infuse it into my own work, and then return the favor.

When I noticed this...

I wondered if I'd feel that way when I met Mr. WTF? Or, more pointedly, if he'd feel that way about me.

I worked my way around to Mark's guy, Al. His booth was full of art that was off the charts. He took Paint by Number paintings that he found in thrift shops and at flea markets, and added alien invasions in Day-Glo sparkly paint. ETs bathing in a scenic river; a UFO landing on a pastoral farm.

I saw a sign in his booth that the paintings were also for sale on his website: www.PaintByNumberInvasions.com "Killer work," I said to Al, a hazel-eyed, mustached silver fox, probs in his fifties, as I stuck out my hand to shake his. "I'm Mags, Mark's friend." Yeah, right, friend.

"Nice to meet you," he said, with an almost unearthly glow to his smile. Maybe he was painting his own people?! "Mark said you're doing some amazing work yourself."

I think I blushed. Or felt flushed. Or something red-hot. I showed him four collages I had brought with me.

"These are excellent," he said. "I really like them. Let me think it over and see if your work fits into the show."

"It better," a voice called out. I turned around and saw Mark. He knew I couldn't react or say anything about him being there in front of his friend.

"Hey, man," he said to Al as they did a bro hug. "And nice to see you, Mags," he said, hugging me.

When he let go, I gave him an "I'm gonna kill you" look, but still played it cool.

"Hey," Al said, "it's time for the DIY doggy fashion show now. It's always crazy. Let's go watch."

"Sure," Mark replied. "Come on, Mags," he said, taking my hand.

I couldn't say no and have Al notice the tension between us. "Fine."

We all walked toward the back of a stage, where about twenty dogs in totally elaborate handmade outfits were gathered with their owners. Some of them, like this one...

...were totally #freak4mypet!

And then I saw it. I swear I did. For the second time in just hours.

Mr. WTF's fudgy-brown dog.

This time it had to really be the evil twin! Dressed in a '60s mod girl outfit, complete with four little white go-go boots. I gasped out loud. "Hey!" I shouted to no one in particular, and took off towards her. Um, without noticing that in my path were BICYCLES ALL PARKED IN A LINE. I tripped over the first one, which landed on the next one, which hit the next one, and one by one the row of two-wheeled dominos toppled over until the entire line of bikes fell in a loud crash-with me on top of the heap.

The commotion freaked out the dogs and they all started barking. One got loose from her owner and ran, and before anyone could stop them, the other dogs followed. I got up and chased after the brown go-go dancer. "COME BACK!!!!" But by the time I had gotten myself out of the bicycle heap, she had a good head start.

I dashed as fast as I could. It was absolute bedlam. Dogs barking and running, people calling out and chasing, as I headed the posse. The crowd might as well have had flaming torches as they stormed after me and their dogs, screaming and swearing. The pups cut through a corner booth that was selling hand-painted MARBLES-of all fucking things!!!!!!!!!! Of course they knocked over a large bowl, sending the marbles flying, and like an old-timey slapstick movie with choreographed mayhem, everyone was slipping on them. I maneuvered in front of the dogs, and finally led the unruly pack to a dead-end fence, like a conductor bringing a runaway train to a screeching halt.

I caught the brown dog in a hug. The crowd approached, and a crying little girl came up to us. "Let go of Noodles!!!!"

The girl's badass mom joined her. "What the hell do you think you're doing, lady?" I have never been called lady once in my life. She meant business. Noodles escaped from my clutches and was so happy to be reunited with her people, she started kissing them and panting. And that's when I saw. No polka-dot tongue. OH. MY. GOD. What had gotten into me?!

"I'm so, so sorry. I thought this was my cousin's dog. Really, I'm so, so sorry."

Everyone else grabbed their dogs and gave me harsh looks. And even TSKs. I don't think there's anything as shameful as a TSK.

As the sea of dogs departed, all that was left standing was Mark.

"Wow," was the only thing he said.

"I can totally explain," I spouted, before realizing that I really couldn't explain anything at all. Why would I even think that Mr. WTF's dog would be at an event Mark invited me to?!

"It's cool."

"I better go home."

"Actually, it looks like you could use a drink. There's an awesome bar down the street. Come on. Just a drink."

I still didn't trust Mark. And I am not one to drink in the afternoon. But then again, I'm not one to think irrationally, be chased by an angry mob, or be called lady.

It had definitely been a week of firsts.

Chapter 39.

DAY 9-NIGHT.

How could I have possibly lived in L.A. for two years and never known about the Tanked Tiki?! Rad as fuck!

Check it out: www.TankedTiki.com Rattan and nets filled the tropical paradise, and each drink being served came with a brightly colored tiny parasol. At the end of a dance floor was a small, more intimate lounge with an imposing tiki face carved in black lava rock, its mouth wide open and a fire blazing inside. As brilliant as the Good Luck Bar did Chinese kitsch, the Tanked Tiki kicked its ass, Polynesian-style.

"This is freakin' amazing!" I said.

"See? What if you just went home?" Mark asked as he led me to a booth and squeezed in next to me.

I shook my head and pointed to the bench across the table.

"OK, fine." He got up and moved there. "Well, that was probably the most excitement anyone's ever experienced at a crafts fair!" Mark smiled.

"Don't remind me. Noodles is going to haunt me for years to come."

We ordered tropical drinks-Mark's came in a tiki mug, mine in a coconut shell. Even though it was early evening now, the hot spot was packed. The crowd seemed unfamiliar. Not the arty east side peeps I was used to, or the gay clientele I spent most of my time hanging out with in New York. The drinks were heavenly, blended with chunks o' fresh fruit.

"Come on," he grabbed my hand. "Let's dance."

The liquor was loosening me up, and I saw no harm in just one dance. We swayed to Polynesian funk. We talked and drank some more, declaring what books and music were MUST HAVES if we were stranded on a tropical island. Mark ordered a third round. We sucked our drinks up like kids with Juicy Juice boxes. A man with an eye patch asked me to dance.

"Nope, I'm with him," I slurred, pointing to Mark, and feeling the effects of the last round.

"Oh, come on, one dance," he said, pulling me to the dance floor.

I pushed off him. "Hey, let me go!"

Mark grabbed his arm, all macho-like. "The lady said NO."

This was the second time in one day I was called lady, breaking the previous world record.

The guy lifted up his hands in the air like they do on every single one of those Food Network competition shows when the time is up. Mark took me to the dance floor and we danced some more. I didn't really realize how drunk I was until I found myself doing wild, suggestive moves with a group of men circled around me, clapping and egging me on. Mark finally took my hand and dragged me back to our booth. We tried to talk coherently as we drank even more.

"Soooo, did Coco gooo toooo Florida?" I asked.

"I don't knoooow. We haven't been in toucsssh. We're done. I know how wronnnggg it wasssss."

"Sure you doooo." I'm not one of those angry or bitter drunks. I'm just a LOUD and oversensitive drunk. "She'sss supposssed to be my bessst friennnnd, but besssst friennnnds don't do what sssshe did to her besssst friennnd. Well, we're not besssst friennnnds anymore," I cried. Yeah, literally. I cried. But I pulled myself together. "Who wantsss to talk about herrrr when we could be talking about USsss? Or nottt talking at all..."

And then I kissed Mark, our pineapple- and coconut-flavored tongues entwining. I pulled back and looked at him. "I don't feel so good." I was spinning.