Last night, we had Poolapalooza at Ward & June’s house, which was fun. They invited Mo and Abby along because they like to pretend that Abby is Esteban and my child, particularly because she looks like a rather convincing combination of our DNA. The entire evening was delightful. I managed to prevent myself from being baked like a lobster by slathering copius amounts of zinc oxide over my curves.
(sniff) I miss my Body Butter.
I haven’t been using it because it is summer and it was starting to make me feel greasy, but I may have to have a guilty dip in the Butter this weekend and grease be damned.
There was one delightful time-traveling moment. I had gone under the water with my new goggles (June bought me expensive nice shaded goggles…. she’s such a giver) and Mo then went under the water with my old pair of goggles and waved at me. I flipped her a double bird while smiling. She retaliated by flipping me a bird, her mouth in a round “OH” of surprise. We both came up out of the water, laughing hysterically. I swear, for a moment we were 12 and 8, respectively. When we were younger, my Aunt Drusilla used to bring us to the Y and leave us in the pool to our own devices while she worked out. We used to plunge under water and mouth sentences to each other, sort of like the underwater telephone game. Anyway, it was a lovely thing.
Mo, however, immediately tattled to June that I had made an obscene gesture to her under the water. Notice how she creatively omitted her own submarine F-bomb? Uh-huh. Some things never change.
Given that I did two walks (yes, TWO!) yesterday and then spent two and a half hours frolicing in the pool last night, I decided to forego my morning walk this morning. Well, ok, I really didn’t decide that until my alarm went off and woke me up. Normally, I wake up as much as an hour before the alarm but not this morning. I rationalized that I’d be taking a shower and that involved shaving, which could be considered stretching and toning. You know… in skewed underachiever logic. It’s amazing how much you can rationalize when your down pillow is humming lullabies in your ear and the sun is washing you in happy golden sleep of the gods.
Then, at work, I realized how much that sugar monkey is still happily riding my back.
My boss came up to me. “So, did you bring in those Krispy Kremes?”
“What? No. What? Krispy Kremes?”
“Oh… I thought maybe you did. So, anyway, I decided to not wear shorts today–“
“No. Go back. Krispy Kremes. Krispy Kreme DONUTS!?”
“Yeah. They looked like Krispy Kremes. I thought that they were, but I’m not sure.”
At that point, I wanted to stand up and grab her by the shirt. “There are Krispy Kremes here?”
“Yeah. I wonder who brought them in?”
“Where. Are. The. Krispy. Kremes?” Was I the only one who understood the importance of such a find???
“Over here.” And she pointed and started to walk toward our normal food area.
I actually bolted up out of my chair and ran, flailing my arms like I was wearing thong panties which were possibly on fire. I ran the way that you sometimes see kids running down hills, when they are completely and utterly out of control and it is all they can do to remain upright.
This is your Weetabix. This is your Weetabix deprived of sugar.
This was not my finest moment.
The worst part was that I was followed by half the people in my department. I am the leader of the Sugar Rebellion. We are here to depose the imperialistic fashion designers who deprive the people of delectable goodness. Take me to your sweetner.
Without the slightest hesitation, I snagged myself an Original Glazed and inhaled it. I then returned to my cube and sneered at my half-eaten Luna bar. It looked surprisingly like a roofing shingle after the sweet pillowy goodness of the Krispy Kreme. My evil sugar slut brain started to make plans for a second and then possibly a third one, but rationale stepped in to save the day and I instead grudgingly chomped on my Luna.
The first step is admitting you have a problem. The second step is apparently firebombing any GD Krispy Kreme shops that dare set up shop within a 100 mile radius.
Speaking of monkeys, as I was driving to work this morning, listening to our poor excuses for local radio, mostly to hear the Jimmy Eats World song because I like to crank that one for some reason, even though it’s completely overplayed, when they read the morning news.
Top story: Apparently there is quite the feud happening at the local zoo. There has been a recent birth in the monkey house and apparently one female monkey has decided that the baby monkey is HERS. The interloper, the baby, and the birth mother have all retreated into the monkeys’ night house where officials suspect that the mother is waiting for the other female to fall asleep and reclaim her baby.
I couldn’t make this stuff up if I tried. Yes. The morning news. That’s Wisconsin for you in a nutshell. It’s either this or serial killers. Seriously. I’ll take the monkey version of the Jerry Springer Show any day.
