There's a woman at work, Susan, who found personalized Cokes for every single one of us. She left them on our desks yesterday and it was very exciting. Naturally, in that super-private open-floor plan, I could hear everyone's excitement as they discovered their bottle. "Wow! Cool! Who gave me this?" everyone would say.
Every single time, I'd stand up and announce, "I did! That was from me!"
Each time, my coworkers would barely flit their eyes my way. "Really, who did this?" they'd ask.
A few of my coworkers put their Coke bottles on Facebook. "My coworker got all of us Cokes with our names on them!" they'd write.
"You're welcome," I wrote each time.
One annoying coworker noted that I received THREE Cokes, one for June, one for Ned, and one with my real name on it. "So Susan was extra generous with you, and yet you're going around still taking credit for giving everyone the Cokes," she said. Everyone's a critic.
"I really think it's weird how Susan's taking the credit for all my hard work," I said conspiratorially to said coworker. "It's just wrong."
No one likes me at work. I may win a least-popular badge at any moment.
Susan of the Coke Susans is also my Fitbit friend, and she for the second weekend in a row has challenged me to the Weekend Warrior badge. That means that by the end of Sunday, whichever of us takes more steps wins a million dollars and a torrid night with Jon Hamm. You can imagine my incentive.
Last night, without realizing my stupid activity didn't even COUNT toward Weekend Warrior, I did half an hour of Tracy Asshole Chapman's cardio video, the one where she leaps around like an asshole for 30 assholian minutes till your thoughts are sweating. Then, to make matters worse, I did her mat video, which is a video that isn't very shiny. Attached please find me lolling exhaustedly on the couch after, and you'd look dead, too, if you'd done all that.
The day dawned with a little Ned action, which in case you wondered garnered me zero activity points and no steps whatsoever. I think we need to incorporate marching band sex, get out the 76 trombones, as it were.
Since that did me zero good at winning this damn challenge, I got on some pajamas (need workout clothes. Did I mention?) and did damn Tracy Asshole Gold again. While I did that, Ned swept the house. Not for bugs like we're being spied on, but to perhaps gather the pet hair that may gather its rosebuds while it may.
The arm portion of this workout is enough to make you want sharks to just come over and gnaw your arms clean off. Seriously, that'd be less painful than this workout.
"UGH," I moaned, putting my arms down for a second.
"You really can and you really must," said Ned. There's a part in the arm exercises when that damn Tracy Asserson says, "I know you feel like you can't keep your arms up any longer, but you really can and you really must."
It's sad that Ned knows it by heart now, too.
After that, Ned went on one of his 9-million-mile bike rides, where he gets his 10,000 steps in immediately, and it always makes me mad. I took each dog separately for a W, and I know I can say the whole word here with just us talking, but I'm worried Edsel will somehow know.
While we were W-ing, I took pictures of stuff I like, like this house. Why won't you buy me this house?
A few weeks ago, Ned and I were W-ing the dogs, and this kid down the street was having a very convenient lemonade sale, as the house next door was for sale and having an open house, and it's kids like that who'll be rich one day. I'd never have thought to be that entrepreneurial. I'd have stayed in the basement watching Lost in Space the whole time that open house went on.
The point is, by the time we got there he was out of lemonade and had resorted to iced herb tea, and it was 25 cents or 10 cents, I forget. I had Ned run home and get a dollar, and we got two glasses and I let him keep the change because Big Spender. Also Ned's Dollar.
The POINT is, that was the best damn iced tea I've ever had in my LIFE. It was DELICIOUS. I keep hoping I'll see the kid, or his mom, to say, What the hell kind of tea WAS that, because I'd MARRY that tea and be Mrs. Tea.
Or I could marry Edsel and be Mrs. Pee.
A guy down the street makes sculpture out of bike parts. If I didn't love my bike so much, I'd have him make one for me. BAH. See, it's funny cause I can't ride a bike. June's failings. They're hilarious!
Finally it was time for the changing of the guard dog.
it about fekking tyme.
I took more pictures and tried not to think about hitting 10-damn-thousand steps. Peppers! Caliente! Which Typepad wants me to change to "clientele." Dear Typepad: Be whiter.
I like this lace curtain and old-fashioned flowers.
Fairy tale cottage. Just last night, Ned and I had a pertinent discussion about who here would be which dwarf, because there are seven of us. We decided pretty quickly I'd be Grumpy, because, you know.
Ned would be Sneezy, because there is NO NEED to be that loud about it. Seriously.
Edsel is the obvious Dopey.
Iris is Bashful. When people come over, she disappears, which is a shame because she's so cute.
NedKitty is Sleepy, which Ned said he didn't like because she's old and it sounds like she's on her way to her Great Demise. Lemme tell you something. I have been with Ned now almost four years, and since DAY ONE he's been worried about that cat's demise and HERE SHE STILL IS.
Tallulah is Doc. She's the smart one.
Lu do be dok.
We were just nearing home when we ran into Ned and his bike. "I'll see you there," he screeched, and tore off ahead of us, on probably step number nine million and forty-two.
Afterward, we both sat listlessly in the back yard, and I am sorry to tell you I am STILL not on 10,000 steps, but I AM on 8,050. And for NOW I'm beating Susan, which is all that matters.
Sitting listlessly has its advantages, as I had a rare sighting of a dopey Edsel in his natural habitat. You know who probably had 10,000 steps by 9 a.m.?
Fitbitly,
June