I just walked a few miles around the neighborhood. My daily exercise. I have to either walk for 45 minutes or do my 45-minute-long DVD workout of abdominal exercises and light weight lifting for my chest and arms, every day.

 

Rare exceptions. I painted my kitchen recently, all by myself, for example. I let myself off the exercising hook that day. And I’m glad, because I still hurt from climbing up on the counters to reach the parts above the cabinets. Ouch, whined the old lady.

 

On the phone to my little sister recently, I was expressing my fervent desire to someday once again wear my all-time favorite pair of jeans, a little size 5/6 dream from Abercrombie & Fitch* I bought used at the Buffalo Exchange on La Brea in Los Angeles.

 

Perfect amount of wear. Low-waisted, but not so low I need a Brazilian wax to wear them in a non-obscene manner. Moderately boot-cut, without looking like they floated in on the bell-bottomed ass of a seventies time machine commuter. Best pair of jeans ever.

 

 My sister told me that she uses stickers for exercise motivation. Like, if she works out, she gets to put a sticker on the calendar that day. I laughed at her. I asked her if she was eight years old. Mocked her shamelessly.

 

So she did what every younger sister who has been mocked does, she gave me the finger and mailed me a sheet of happy, sparkly flower stickers with a note that said, “Put one of these on your calendar whenever you work out!” Smiley face.

 

So I tried it. And I’ll be damned if it doesn’t work. I want my stupid little sticker every day. I want that calendar to look like a happy fucking garden full of flower stickers, the likes of which I’ve never seen. I want it to explode with the flowery sticker expression of my motivation; a cheerful, floral testament to my determination and moxie.

 

I want my daily sticker.

 

Damn it. She was right.

 

I even got my husband doing it.

 

I gave him some “Good job!” motivational-type stickers I bought for our son, and he puts one next to my flower sticker when he works out. His have different wild animals on them.

 

A couple that regresses back to childhood together stays together, isn’t that how the old saying goes? Ahem.

 

 

I listened to The Breeders old Pod album today as I walked. The perfect pop drums and incredible dynamics on that record still blow me away to this day.

 

I decided that it’s a good thing that I got pregnant and left Los Angeles, because I probably would have ended up as an orange, leathery, weird old lady you might see walking down Hollywood Boulevard, air drumming along with my iPod.

 

I can’t get used to the fact that nobody else can hear the music to which I’m listening. I want to share the music, the feeling it gives me, and I forget that I’m the only one feeling it. I want to dance and nod my head, but I would look bat-shit crazy.

 

We have a treadmill for inclement weather, but I prefer to walk outside if I can. I like to leave things behind. We do this our whole lives, if you really think about it, so it makes sense that it feels so natural.

 

You’ve left everything behind you thus far.

 

You heartless bastard.

 

I’m just kidding. That’s just how the concept of “past” works. We’re constantly moving ahead into the future. I don’t really think you’re a heartless bastard.

 

Unless I dated you at some point. Then I reserve the right. (Somebody’s gotta keep this cross warm, damn it.)

 

 

 

I have been playing online Scrabble lately. The program allows you to have a conversation during the game. It makes it even more fun.

 

I try to use the word I’m putting down in a sentence, just to see what pops out. My favorite Scrabble conversation has been with my friend Brittaney. She told me I could share, so… the Scrabble word that was played has been italicized for your pleasure:

 

 

 

Tawni F: Tawni held Brittaney’s silky hair back while she projectile vomited vodka into the bushes outside of the club.

 

Brittaney P: While she could care less about Brittaney’s clothes, she *did* want to keep that silky hair tidy.

 

Tawni F: The club’s bouncer called the police on the two dicey looking girls out front, puking in the bushes while talking about silky hair.

 

Brittaney P: “I’m as pretty as them!,” she slurred through vodka-induced tears. “I can be a cheerleader, too! I can be a pretty cheerleader! RAH!!”

 

Tawni F: Brittaney and Tawni spent the rest of the evening making cool CD mixes of their favorite songs while they made fun of cheerleaders, ate pizza and drank more vodka.

 

Brittaney P: The vodka was clearly a bad idea, as not an hour later, cries of “Don’t encage me!” were heard through the windows of Tawni’s dark attic.

 

Tawni F: Brittaney and Tawni had to bemoan their love of vodka as they surveyed the wrecked house and broken attic windows through which something large had escaped.

 

Brittaney P: That something was a robot. A *drunk* robot.

 

Tawni F: The drunk robot must have been very quiet as he escaped from the attic. Or maybe Brittaney and Tawni were just passed out from the vodka. Yeah, it was probably that.

 

Brittaney P: Or it was the pot. The girls had been taking hit after hit from the bong since 4:00 that day. A possible reason they missed the ado….

 

Tawni F: The girls decided to equip the cage in the attic with a security alarm so they wouldn’t doze through another robot escape.

 

Brittaney P: Brittaney had zero faith in their ability to construct said alarm in the state they were in.

 

Tawni F:  Tawni said “Faith? Wait… what?” and began to doze. The robots win again.

 

Brittaney P: And with that, Brittaney put her favorite Slayer album in the tape deck!

 

Tawni F:  The delightful sounds of Slayer woke Tawni up, so she and Brittaney began rocking on all fronts with the robot. Turns out, it was a ROCK robot!

 

Brittaney P: The vodka-induced hallucinations wore off. When Britt saw the ad for raspberry Stoli on tv she remarked to Tawn, “Aw hell no, I gots to wean myself off this shit!”

 

Tawni F:  Tawni was vying for Britt’s attention as she drooled at the raspberry Stoli ad. “I am not holding up your silky hair while you puke this time if you leave me for raspberry-flavored vodka!” she shrilled at her friend Brittaney. Brittaney and the rock robot covered their ears and winced at Tawni.

 

Brittaney P: Turns out, Britt was wincing because the rock robot had accidentally pinched her labia trying out one of its new “rock moves.”

 

Tawni F:  Tawni was no juror, so she tried not to judge Brittaney or the rock robot for the creepy “labia dance” they seemed to be performing for her entertainment.

 

Brittaney P: “Fava beans,” she exclaimed. “What are you, Silence of the Freaking Lambs, Rock Robot??”

 

Tawni F:  It took all of Tawni’s guile to escape the liver-hungry Rock Robot.

 

 

********

 

 

See? Isn’t that so much more fun than normal Scrabble? You get a bizarre story to go with your Scrabble game. Sweet.

 

 

 

I hope you’re having a beautiful week, my friends.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* Also known as “Ambercroombie and Flitch” if you are cool enough: http://www.thenervousbreakdown.com/blisti/2009/03/youre-so-cool/#more-12593