The RAP Sheet: February 2008

February 29, 2008 The RAP Sheet

Blogging was made for bitching.

Whether it’s about slow drivers, unruly children, or spouses who can’t seem to pick up their own underwear, the blogosphere is constantly atwitter with our gripes. And while we would in no way suggest you stop bitching, once in a while it’s nice to stop and remember some of those people who makes us forget about the dirty underwear.

It is because of those people that Hilly, Britt and I decided to launch The RAP Sheet.

Out here in Blogaritaville, there are some Ridiculously Awesome People. People who touch us, who make us laugh, who make us want to reward them with a cutesy graphic. Those are the people we add to The RAP Sheet. (read through to the end where I’ll tell you how you can play along!)

So without holding back any longer, my RAP Sheet will kick off with someone very special:

(more…)

Muffintop In Da House!

February 26, 2008 Muffintop

I’ve been cheating on you, dear readers. Averaging one post a week here for the last while is a direct result of my infidelity to this website, and I’m sorry.

I’ve been working on something bigger. Not necessarily better, just bigger.

My ass.

Rather than bore the living crap out of you with BMI (high), nutrition (meager), and cardio (pathetic), I thought I’d bring you the lighter side (pun intended) of getting into shape.

Welcome to a new category here at Sugarpants: Muffintop.

My personal trainer, G, is a young skinny bitch with the authority to kick my ass. I gave her that right when I signed on 8 sessions ago. I told her I wanted to “work out like an athlete, not a housewife.”

Little did I know she has been moonlighting as a torture expert for the CIA.

Punishing me is her favorite activity. My arms and legs have felt the hopeless defeat of “3 more” several times. My muscles have gotten to the point where I could not lift my arm or stand without feeling like my ass might fall off (one can only hope). She makes me laugh so hard when we do the ab work, I’m a useless Gumby by 15. Or um, 5.

During exercise, I hate her. I mean, I don’t hate her hate her, but Oh Em Gee she is tough. And she has no heart.

Last night she informed me we were getting to the end of our 12 sessions and I should purchase more sessions this week because her review is coming up so she will be more expensive after that because she’ll be a “Master.”

“Do I have to call you that? Master?” I asked.

She laughed, “No I’ll be a “Master Trainer.”

“Yes Master,” I teased. I made a few more Master jokes as we finished the weight machines and we went to the mats to do abs. Face up, I held her ankles and tried to kick her in the face do leglifts but she always won and pushed me down first.

Still making fun of her new title, we giggled like a couple of idiots through 45 32 21 8 leglifts before I asked her if I could call her Master Homie G In Da House.

She insisted. I’m totally going to buy her a giant clock to wear around her neck. Maybe it will weigh her head down low enough so I can kick her in the face.

Crossposted over at the Fabulous Mommybloggers Site!

February 19th Is Male PMS Day, FYI

February 21, 2008 SugarSpawn

The other day I took both kids to the grocery store and it was fairly busy.  We were shopping for the ingredients for chili and I was kind of in a rush but knew Thomas would rather walk then ride in the cart so I took a deep breath and tried to relax about the situation.

You see, I had promised Daren’s Grandmother I would make chili and bring it over that night, but they eat at 4:30 every night and it was already noon, so I was cutting it close since the chili takes 3 hours to make.

(I’ll post the recipe later – it is a baked chili and oh-so-yummy!)

Once in the store, Dylan wanted to deposit his allowance into the bank machine.  I waited off to the side while he put his cash in an envelope on the counter directly beside the bank machine.  He was about to step (it’s literally one step) over to the machine and this man barged in ahead of him.  He looked at me in defeat and I said, “Come here and stand in line Dylan and wait your turn AGAIN.  How RUDE.”

I put my arm around him and we waited in silence.

The man ignored my comment, never once looking up or acknowledging that he was a total douchenozzle for butting ahead of a 9 year old kid.

Whatever.  Life is too short, right?

Dylan took his turn at the machine, and we cruised the grocery store at toddler-speed, checking things off the list with me repeating “over here Thomas, come here Thomas,” a lot because 3 years old are like slack-jawed nomads in such a stimulating setting as the grocery store, and I’m quite fond of my slack-jawed nomad, don’t ya know.

I found myself enjoying this task with my kids, talking to them about whatever, and holding their hands a little.

In one of the aisles, Thomas got turned around and ended up standing beside some man’s cart.

“Mommy’s over here Thomas,” I said.  He looked up and realized where he was and came back to me, smiling.

The man looked at me and laughed.  I smiled at him, thinking he once had kids and he understood or he thought my kid was cute or whatever.

“Oh I’m not laughing with you,” he snarled, “I’m laughing AT you.”

“Uh..pardon me?” I asked.

He repeated himself and added, “I used to have some of those too.”

(those?  they aren’t plantar’s warts, they’re children, dickface.)

“Kids?” I asked.

“Yeah.  And thank God, they grew up and moved out.  Now I’m laughing at you because you’re still there.”

I wasn’t sure what to make of this guy.  It’s like when I had Thomas and there was a woman on my ward who very clearly did not want her baby and she cried and screamed so much.  It was unnerving.  Strange.  Foreign.

“Well I love it, ” I smiled.

“No you don’t,” he challenged.

“Yes, I really do love being a Mom,”  I insisted.

“No you don’t,” He smirked.

I started to walk away, holding Thomas’ hand and placing Dylan’s on the cart in an effort to get away from this bitter man.

He called after me.  “You WAIT till they move out.  You’ll LOVE it when they are GONE.”

(okay crazy man, you can shut up now.  you’re scaring my kids.)

I was halfway across the store with the boys when Dylan asked, “What did that man mean?”

I explained what I thought the man meant, and told Dylan that I indeed loved being a Mom no matter what the man meant by his tirade.

“I know you do Mom.  You can tell the way your eyes go when you look at us.  All watery and sparkly.”

“Awww, that’s sweet honey,” I replied, putting my arm around his shoulders again.

He smiled up at me.  “That guy didn’t know anything.”

“Oh Dylan.  Maybe he just doesn’t know love.”

“Yeah well, he won’t ever know love with a heart like that.”

Wow.  9 years old and already so smart and perceptive.

I really do love being a Mom, and that caustic old man might not believe it, but he just drove the point home.