Sucking and Sucking Good

That's what I think about not remembering to put on my pedometer until the morning is almost gone. I'd already been up and down the stairs a half dozen times, had hung the tiny terrorists... uh... I mean the little people's... clothes back up in their closet and then I remembered that I should put my fucking pedometer on. So down the stairs, clip it to the pocket on my dress and back up to (ugh) clean the cat litter. Now I'm looking at my pedometer and I'm disgusted that it's not even over 1,000 steps! WTF???? I think that if this bitch isn't clipped on where it stays absolutely upright (as in it isn't hanging on the saggy pocket of my linen house dress - yeah I look like a fucking house wife, what of it ) then it doesn't register every step. Gawd Darn it! So like the dork that I am, I have clipped it to my underwear. Yes my panties. I have a talking pedometer clipped to my lavender string bikinis (yeah I know, an image you didn't really need). I can't help but wonder if this talking pedometer will (a) freak me out when it speaks from my panties, as I'm unaccustomed to anything mechanical speaking to me from such a local (b) if it will start talking to me and telling me more than just how many steps I have taken (as in, 'Damn Bitch! That's the lamest shaving job I've ever seen! Yo man's not gonna wanna stick his face in a cactus patch - go get that razor again!' or 'Good Gawd! Talk about ratty-assed panties! Spend a buck already and buy a new pair! Damn, didn't you have these back in high school?' ), which I'm not sure I can take that kind of criticism right now (besides my panties are not ratty or old - not this pair anyway). OK enough about conversations from my underwear - I'm off to finish the laundry.