It was a bad day for Operation Hottie.
I ate several cookies. There was a latent package of Girl Scout Cookies lurking where I might stumble upon them. Ok. In the garage. They were in the garage underneath some mail. But still. Insidious little bitches. Also I was too lazy to go for a walk this morning before work. I did manage to haul my butt outside for a minor walk mid-morning, and even managed to con a cube potato to come out with us, even though there wasn’t food involved, but then I shirked my afternoon walk because I just had lost the will to live.
It is so completely dead at work. I never thought I would be complaining, but I feel like shouting ‘Give me your stupid, your morons, your wretched cretins needing to use our software and surf free’ all the while a corporate banner flies behind me and my coworkers hum ‘Right Here Right Now’ or something. Mostly because in my fantasies, there’s always an elaborate sense of showmanship and usually a synchronized swimming routine combined with fireworks somehow.
Also, I think I may have surfed the extent of everything interesting on the Internet. Or everything that I can look at while working without getting fired. I mean, I’m not out there looking for naked pictures of Vern Yip or anything (which, by the way, is one of the top google searches that this site receives).
Oh. And I named my Tivo. His name is Ricky Fitts. Because he shows me all that is beautiful.
Seriously. Last night, as I was crashing, I watched Martha Stewart show me the proper way to fill a window box (in case you’re wondering, dump in special Martha approved soil, fill with expensive pots, and then water with approved Martha water, preferably dew collected from a rare tropical plant and also available at Martha By Mail for $59.99 a gallon in a decorative green depression glass canister). And then, at one point, I said ‘Good night Martha!’ and turned it off, secure in the knowledge that Ricky will keep that episode until I want it no longer and he will also bring me fresh Martha for days to come.
I love Ricky!
I wish my refrigerator could do such things for me. I wish it could only provide me that which I had deigned at a less frantic moment’ for instance, fresh fruits, bread that didn’t kill the plan, and lovely magical diet food that tastes like KFC Original Recipe but without calories.
I endeavor to do 50 crunches tonight while watching whatever Ricky wants to show me tonight. And then sometimes, I read sentences like the one preceding this one and I just can’t freaking believe that came out of my mouth.
Or keyboard, as it were.
Oh, but this was cool. A few days ago, I was talking with my Incredibly Healthy But Still Incredibly Nice So You Can’t Hate Her coworker and mentioned that I could now touch my fingers to the ground when standing with my feet together. So she tried it. And her fingers stopped 6 inches off the ground. And she’s six inches shorter than I am.
So last night, I mentioned it to Mo while at my Drunken Mama’s house. Mo tried it and SHE couldn’t do it either. Mom tried it and she CAN do it, but not all that well. So’ that freaking rocked. Then Mo challenged me to a Crunch-Off because she’s kind of a psycho that way. I told her that she’d totally kick my ass at a crunch off, simply because she’s been crunching for three months, and I’m not even at a week. But then Jonathon countered that Mo looks 32 and I looked like I was 25. And his little friend Zach agreed that Mo looks older than me, because she goes tanning.
And a little child shall lead them.
Note to self: buy Jonathon and Zach a car when they turn 16.
