Workout buddies & three-headed sperm: You can't pay for friends like these

I’VE REALLY BEEN struggling with physical therapy lately (has to do with my ongoing battle with depression) until I found a new runnin buddy, Tona, aka Good-n-

Is there anything better than a new friend saying, "OMG I laughed myself silly!"

Plenty, who in this neck of the woods is pronounced, “Plenny” who’s sense of humor is every bit as twisted as mine.

I knew we would get along famously when, while we were laughin ourselves silly doing some really unattractive squats, said she turned to me and said, “You know who you remind me of? The Sweet Potato Queen.”

Turns out, she’s reading SCOOP and said she couldn’t stop laughing, and what else have I written? *Authors are chronically neurotic and needy and will work for praise, so if you like an author, please let them know they’re the best thing since sliced bread~believe it or not, it makes a difference as to whether we’ll sit our ass down and write or pour a big bourbon and Diet Coke and watch reruns of The Closer.

In my opinion, there aren’t many higher compliments than being compared to Jill Conner Browne, for a whole buncha reasons, but mainly because it means we’ve got the same warped way of lookin at life, with a motto of You might as well laugh– it’s cheaper than bail.

It’s a lot easier to subject yourself to physical pain and exertion if you’ve got somebody to laugh with.

I used to have workout buddies back in the day (when I lived in actual civilization). My author buddies, Emily McKay and Julie Ortolon and I used to work out three times a week, with the added incentive of lolling about in the pool then restoring our fat and alcohol content at Flores Mexican Restaurant with Mexican Martinis and chorizo queso dip *scuse me while I wipe slobber of my keyboard*.

When I say “work out” I use the term loosely, because a typical session started with stretching, in which we would chatter about what we were writing, how hard it was, and of course, research. If you’ve never researched for a romance novel, you don’t know what you’re missing.

It turns out Emily and I had both watched the Discovery Channel episode about talked about men and how their Man Parts react after an absence from their honey-bun. It turns out, men generate Super Sperm–really aggressive three-headed swimmers meant to smack around any other swimmers that may have “accidentally” slipped past the life guard while Buddy Boy was gone (don’t you hate it when you accidentally trip over a sperm?).

About that time, we heard a big crash and a yelp from a man who’d been listening and dropped a 20-pound dumbell on his big toe. I wonder how that affected his sperm count . . .

And while Miss Tona and I haven’t gotten around to talkin about the Discovery Channel, we’ve decided to go in early from now on. For ourselves, and the safety of others . . . I wouldn’t want to be blamed for anyone else’s infertility . . .