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This gem was waiting for me in my inbox. It was too good to keep to myself (feel free to share your OWN fitness ideas in the comments):

Dear Aunt Becky,

Here is one of my favorite fitness tips: you MUST take it seriously or it WILL NOT WORK.

Here goes:

Take a walk…a long walk..alone and away from the kids.(In your yoga pants and Reebok’s)(of course)(NOTE: I have not been compensated in any way to endorse Reebok’s)(I wanted to sound like a real, professional blogger for a minute)

Your walk will be very enjoyable. You will notice the things you’ve never noticed before while in a car. That interesting twist of the trunk of that tree. The amaaazing cloud formations, the squirrels bustling about woods (or are they humping?)

Your feet wont even notice they are walking! You may even get lost (WARNING: this is very probable if you are anything like me!)Don’t forget to bring your Ipod with some Ingrid Michaelson and Freddy Johnson…they have never sounded so good as when you are doing this regime!

(This is the calorie burning section of this essay, so please pay special attention)

After finally arriving home, go immediately to the top of the armoire, (or wherever your favorite hiding spot is) and reach down a Kit Kat from the Kit Kat Party Bag. (Reaching is imperative,as that is the stretching section  of the work out) (I am a big fan of parenthesis)(if you cant already tell) Continue reaching /opening/eating until you are sweating. This is how you know the workout is successful! Yay! You’ve done it!

I believe in you, Aunt Becky. I know you can do it, girl.

Call me if you need encouragement.

Love you lots,


PS: you can further the benefits of this workout by following the Kit Kat section and going into the kitchen and cooking the family a fantastic dinner with the specific nutrients found in butter, cheese, deep fried foods and chocolate!

In a drunken fit of drunkenness, I agreed to wear a pedometer and set some fitness goals. Omron kindly asked me to join their Fitness Blogger Challenge Campaign, which, DUH, screams AUNT BECKY, right? They sent me some sweet ass swag (and some for YOU, too) and I was all, I am so going to beat the shit out of this challenge.

I just knew it.

I mean, as long as I could call it an “odometer,” I was pretty happy to try wearing the thing for a month. I mean, I walk all the time…right? Surely as a “writer”* on the Internet who spends her time watching zany cats do stuff while pecking out email after email on her Big Mac is probably an athletic superstar.

Really, how could I *not* be eligible for an award like, “most athletic blogger,” or “walks most steps in a day?” I scoffed at the suggestion of 10,000 steps a day – certainly I did at least a million steps each day. Probably TWO million!

In fact, I bet that I’d break the odometer with my awesome steps.

I couldn’t wait to go to the Omron factory, right in my backyard, to be all, “I broke this with my awesomeness.”

Happily I strapped it on the first day – I didn’t even drop it in the toilet. I hummed a little as I imagined the odometer getting all confused after I passed the 1 million steps mark.

At the end of the night, I glanced down at the thing and was all, OH EM GEE, this ridiculously expensive odometer is broken. Obviously.

Because there is NO WAY I only walked 2,398 steps. It probably had to roll over from 99,999 or something. Right?

The next morning, I got up and happily strapped the thing on again. This time I included some yoga pants (who cares if I never actually DO yoga in my yoga pants?) and a headband to catch all the sweat that I’d be dripping. I’d have used those weird 80’s wrist cuffs if I had any, but sadly, no.

I put up a picture of Bob Greene as a motivator-thingy and pictured him cheering me on each time I wrote an email.


His voice sounded like Billy Mays, so I got a little nostalgic. And when I get nostalgic, I have to take a nap. Kind of like when I have a cheeseburger. Or really, any time. I love naps. I bet Bob Greene does too. I get to talk to him next week and I plan to ask him about it.

The end of that night, after I was all EYE OF THE MOTHERFUCKING TIGER about shit? My odometer read 1,082.

Apparently, WEARING yoga pants isn’t the same as working out. Who the fuck knew?


It was a bad month to work on getting fit – pneumonia, now I’m dying of something that’s growing in my sinuses, then an ear infection, now Ebola – so I’m going to have to cram all of my Getting Fit With Omron into a week and a half. What can I say? I’m a procrastinator (although this time, not by choice).

So I’m setting a ridiculously low goal and trying to stick to it. I know that simple shit like parking far away from the entrance to Target (my boyfriend) is an easy way to get a little bit of exercise. If all else fails, I can throw the odometer on one of the kids and be all BOOO-YEAH.

Because Your Aunt Becky has GOT to get fit. Or die trying.

Oh yeah, and I’m being compensated to write this post by Bookieboo LLC in a blogger campaign with Omron Fitness.

*use of quotation marks is intentional.

Okay, Pranksters – I need some ridiculously awesome (or hilarious) fitness tips. Because obviously. Or if you’ve got none, tell me what your favorite flavor of cupcake is, because delicious. Obviously.

It might shock you, Pranksters, that Your Aunt Becky is a weeeee bit compulsive.

Okay, stop nodding so hard – it’s giving me a headache.

So I’m compulsive. One look at my orchid farm will tell you that much.

I mean, I’m so compulsive that days like yesterday, even though I had a perfectly valid reason (I was sick and had to go to the doctor ALSO Alex was sick – ear infection this time – and had to go to the doctor) not to post here, because it would’ve turned out like, “GAHHHH! WHY DO I FEEEEEL SO SICK! IT’S MARK ANTHONY’S FAULT!” I still felt off. All day.

Had I had three remaining brain cells, I’d have grimly come up with SOMETHING. Because OMGWTFBBQ it’s my BLAWG and peoples READ MAH BLAWG.


But Glee, sadly, was on hiatus for some American Idol crap or something. And I was recovering from surgery which meant I wasn’t supposed to be sitting up. I had a LOT of hours to fill. Vertically.


Netflix and I had a love affair, see, and I TRUSTED Netflix not to do me wrong.

Happily, I noted that I had six (SIX!) entire seasons of the show to watch. I’d have done a happy dance if I’d be able, but I settled on a lone *fistbump* and queued up the first episode.

Okay, I said, so there’s this really nice doctor guy and he’s got this perfect wife and two kids – the boy looked like Michael Jackson – and then there’s this cocky playboy doctor and puts his peen in lots of things. Instantly, I was horrified. Crazy-balls Anne Hesche was in it. Until I learned that it wasn’t actually Crazy-Balls Anne Hesche and felt bad for hating the pretty blonde NON-ANNE-HESCHE lady.

But whatever. The kid looked like Michael Jackson and the two doctors were semi-likeable.

By episode two, I found myself bored.

By episode three, I’d begun to hate each and every character - including the hamster.

Any normal person would have then stopped the show, shrugged, and written it off as a crap-ass show. But not Your Aunt Becky.

No, I grimly sat through each show, all of the ridiculous scenarios, and hoped for a better episode. The next one HAD to be better, right?

Turns out, not so much.

My favorite moment of the entire show was when someone got hit by a bus. It was great.

The rest of it? I hated each and every character. Equally. At no point did I say, “wow, that was great. I really connected with that character.”

(to be fair, I’ve never said something so hokey in my life, unless I was stoned and/or drunk)

So this week, when The Guy On The Couch, The Daver and I ran out of Pawn Stars episodes on Netflix, we searched desperately to find something to fill the void. Anything.

“I’ve heard good things about Parking Wars,” Daver suggested.

“Me too,” The Guy on the Couch chimed in.

“Uh, I’ve never heard of it, but okay,” I agreed.

We settled down to watch the first episode.

Instantly, I hated everyone on the screen – these are the fuckheads who give me tickets and they’re talking about how they think they’re doing some great job for the world? HOW IS CHARGING ME TWENTY BUCKS ALTRUISTIC?

By the time some lady began weeping over her car, calling it “her BABY,” I had to turn it off. I mean, who can feel a connection with the douchebags that give me parking tickets for being ONE MINUTE PAST MY METER TIME? Like, aw, thanks Buddy, for making MY world a WORSE place to be. Way to RID the world of those of us who FORGET TO PAY OUR METERS. YOU’RE TOTALLY SUPER-FUCKING-MAN, BUDDY!

It’s like trying to be sympathetic to the chick who has brought in 8 different guys for five different Maury shows. WHO HAS SEX WITH THAT MANY PEOPLE IN A MONTH?

Only thing worse than Parking Wars would be watching people at the DMV…

Wait, so long as the DMV people were antagonists, I might be okay.


I am pleased to report to you, Pranksters, that I DID, in fact, learn my lesson. Rather than muddle through the entire catalog of Parking Wars, I deleted it from my “you might like this” queue.


Hoarders, however, well, let’s just say I miss seeing people poo into bags AND SAVE IT.

(okay, that’s a lie)

P.P.S. I’m probably delirious.

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