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.
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.
“YOU GO AUNT BECKY. YOU BURN THOSE CALORIES AND YOU TAKE THOSE STEPS.”
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.
Last year, right around this time, I was all OMGWTFBBQ GLEE IS AWESOME. I DON’T CARE IF THE GIRL EVERYONE SAYS IS LIKE ME, HAS A MOUTH THAT THREATENS ME WHILE I WATCH. IT’S SO FUNNY AND AWESOME AND OMGWTFBBQ.
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.
So I’m all, YOU KNOW WHAT’S GOTTA BE AS AWESOME AS GLEE? THE OTHER SHOW THE GLEE CREATOR MADE: NIP/TUCK.
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.
BECAUSE YOU KNOW WHAT, NETFLIX, I DON’T LIKE IT.
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.
I met her there, on the transplant floor (liver and kidney) where she sat, her eyes full of a sadness I couldn’t quite place, next to her son. The second of her three children to lay in a bed just like that one, all suffering the same rare genetic liver disease. The guilt was written all over her face – she hadn’t known that she and her husband were carriers for this disease – it hadn’t occurred to her to be tested. Not until later – much later, after her first son required a liver transplant.
I had her during my clinicals that week, so I spent a good deal of time with her. They lived in some BumFuck Southern town, temporarily moving to Chicago where the premiere doctor who treated this particular liver disease practiced. She and her husband and their other kids, moved, where so many do, into the Ronald McDonald house attached to the hospital I’d been volunteered to rotate through.
A student nurse then, the horror of a hospital – a big, beautiful, wonderful, cheerful hospital – that treated only children, her eyes haunted me long after I’d stopped being their nurse.
Their son, he was three at the time, I think, and while he was bloated, sorta like Violet Beauregard from Willy Wonka, he bore enough of a resemblance to my own tiny son that I couldn’t help but see him every time I administered medication or checked his vitals.
We walked past the house a couple of times. Visiting the dialysis center. Other offsite clinical stuffs. It was there. The logo was similar to that of my most favorite fast-food joint – McDonald’s – and I thought, each time, of the families who had to live there, while they waited to see if their children could be cured.
It was an honor to have been placed there – Children’s Memorial Hospital – and I was one of six lucky recipients.
In a twist of fate no one could’ve foreseen, my daughter, not even a glimmer in my eye at that time, had her neurosurgery at a branch of the very same hospital. She wore the same gown that all of my patients back then did, making me feel as though I’d somehow walked into an alternate universe.
I’m close enough now to Children’s Memorial that I didn’t have to stay at the Ronald McDonald house when she was born so sick. Or when she had to be readmitted for her surgery.
But I never forgot.
I never forgot what an amazing place the Ronald McDonald House was. When I think of it even today, I am reminded of the woman with the sick boys, who harkened from BumFuck, USA, living in the Great Big City of Chicago while she awaited her son’s fate.
My friend Paula, another transplant mom, who I happened to meet through this very blog (who also works with me now, on Band Back Together), began something a couple of months ago. She inspired me.
She’s been collecting pop-tops to donate to the Ronald McDonald house (not the same one that I’ve been to). She inspired me to do the same.
And now I ask you, My Pranksters, to consider helping me with this.
McDonald’s Corporate HQ is about thirty minutes from my house and I plan to collect as many pop-tabs as I can to donate to their charity.
If you’d like to join me, (PLEASE?!), you can collect these pop-tabs and drop them off at your OWN Ronald McDonald House, or you can send them directly to me.
Email me: firstname.lastname@example.org for my address.
Time to use The Internet for some good.
P.S. If I get enough pop-tabs, I will totally do something random for you on a dare. Like go out in public in jeggings or something. YOU PICK THE DARE.
Also: if you’re participating, go ahead and link up, yo!