Challenges & Scale Fun

He doesn't know it yet, but I've just challenged R Martini to blog every day for a week. Think he can do it? And, it has to be interesting, thought-provoking stuff, you know, like the kind of crap you read here on MM! And let's see, I challenge him to get at least five comments from five readers each day, and the comments cannot be from Martini or Manic, and the same reader commenting on the same post does not count either.

Up for the challenge buddy?

In other exciting Manic Mom's World News, I got a scale.

I didn't open it for a couple days, then Mom (the real Mom, my real Mom, not Manic Mom) asked me where it was. I told her, she got it out, we both looked at each other, then back down at the scale.

Then, we went for it.

We each got nekkid in the kitchen to weigh ourselves.

Erase gross mental picture in your head, because I have.

Apparently, I bought a very friendly scale because both Mom and I were pleased with the nekkid-kitchen weigh-ins. But... we were doubtful. However, I had remembered Ajers was weighed last Friday for football so I yelled down to the basement:

"Ajers! Get up here!"

He thought he was in trouble.

"Get on this scale. How much did you weigh when you went to football on Friday?"

"92" BTW, Ajers is EIGHT. He's a house. He's an eight-year-old in like a thirteen-year-old's bod.

The scale was right on for his weight.

We weighed Lovey the maniacal dog (Yes, she's still here, and no, she stopped sleeping between my legs, but you know what? I kind of miss her there).

Mom said she knows Lovely is nineteen pounds.

Lovey weighed EXACTLY nineteen pounds.

We weighed Tukey; we weighed Diva. We made my Dad get on the scale in his skivvy-whitey-tighties, and believe me, if you think nekkid-kitchen weigh-ins are gross, check out Dad in his whitey-tighties (just kiddin' Daddy, you know you are the Fox according to my friends!). We made Hubby's best friend, Joey Bear come upstairs and get on the scale. When Hubby got home, I made him come up to the bedroom with me. At first he was very excited. Then I told him to take off his pants. He was still very excited. Then I told him to get on the scale. Not very excited.

Tonight, my mom-in-law, sis-in-law, and E the main man, my new little nephew adopted from Russia arrived. (No, they didn't arrive from Russia idiots... from Ohio and Kankakee, respectively.)

Mom and I glanced at each other. Fresh meat.

"B," my mother said to my sis-in-law, after gooing and ahhing and oohing over Ethan. "How much does Ethan weigh?"

"Twenty-six pounds."

Mom and I look at each other, and yell, "GET HIM UP ON THE SCALE!" We all know little kid's weights do not fluctuate like the water-weight-carrying-PMSing weights of a woman. We raced Ethan up to the scale. I also had Tukey there in case Ethan got scared of us and our enthusiasm. We had Tukey demonstrate the proper etiquette for scale-weigh-ins.

"Okay, Ethan, do like Tukey. Get on the scale."

Drumroll please....

TWENTY SIX FREAKING POUNDS ON THE DOT!

I LOVE MY NEW SCALE! I seriously was expecting a seven-to-10 pound gain from what it said. I love it. I love it. I am not afraid of it.

Mom and I were extremely pleased that the new improved magical scale was a NICE one! So much so that after we all weighed in, we celebrated by going to get ice cream!

Me? A double scooper in a waffle cone--Peppermint stick on the bottom, and Fudgy Pudding on top.

I'm out.