2002-07-02 - 9:39 p.m.

On the internal soundtrack: "It's The End of the World As We Know It", by whoever it is that sings that song.

My husband has this weird but amusing way of taking something I say and turning it into a lewd suggestion, in the form "I'll X your Y, baby."

The other day, for example, I picked up a slice of pound cake at 7-11 to eat during the movie. It was awful, so I only ate one bite. But Poindexter saw it sitting on the table, and the following conversation ensued:

Poindexter: What's that?
Evelynne: Pound cake.
Poindexter: [waggling eyebrows] I'll pound your cake, baby.

When I was at the dollar store a couple weeks ago, I picked up some temporary tattoos. I love those things. I like the idea of a tattoo, and flirted with the idea of getting one when I was younger, but decided I'd rather keep it as an option rather than a built-in.

So, I got these fake tattoos that are like ornate circles. I figured I'd put them at the small of my back, like Scully in "Never Again", except hers was a snake biting its tail. Something that would peek above my waistband when I was wearing my low-cut jeans.

Anyway, I can't reach the small of my back, so I lay down on the bed after a shower and demanded that Poindexter put it on for me. He was half watching Howard, so it didn't go as smoothly as I had anticipated. He started to peel off the backing, and then:

Poindexter: Uh-oh.
Evelynne: Uh-oh what?
Poindexter: It's kinda off-center.
Evelynne: Off-center?!
Poindexter:Just a little.
Evelynne: You've got the crack of my ass pointing where to put it and it's off-center?!
Poindexter: Well, you had me at a funny angle!

So now we joke about my "crooked tattoo" and he has promised it will not be crooked next time. Good thing it's not a real one. :)

I've noticed that although I never drive anymore, I'm not getting real cardiovascular exercise out of walking my errands (probably because it's so hot). So I noticed when I do try to walk fast, I huff and puff. I'm dreadfully out of shape.

So, in addition to doing aerobics indoors more often, I decided that I would stop using the elevator, and pretend I live in a fifth floor walkup.

So far, the first three floors don't faze me much. But the last floor is hard. Then it takes me awhile to recover. I think my recovery time is getting shorter, though. I read somewhere that your fitness level can be gauged in party by how long it takes you to stop huffing and puffing after exertion. I wonder if that's true.

If so, my goal is not to be huffing and puffing anymore by the time I get from the stairway down the hall into the apartment. We shall see.

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