A Side of Rice

Hopefully Humorous (and sometimes R-rated) Musings About Life


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Naked and Afraid … We’ll Never Have A/C Again

Seven years ago, my parents gifted us with a portion of some found money from an inheritance. We took our unexpected windfall and bought this:

Our island

That’s right – a poster of a tropical island. We hung it above the master bathroom tub and began dreaming about what it would be like to enjoy amazing alcoholic drinks on the beach in the picture.

Which, in my mind, would be something classy like this:

Classy drinking gif

But would actually turn out like this:

Cinderella gif

With the money left over after the poster purchase, we decided to buy something that would really up our street cred as cool parents. Our kids thought that meant a family vacation to Atlantis.

What we actually invested in was a new furnace and A/C unit. So, as you can image, the kids were totally on board:

Wait-say-what-GIF

Fast forward to Thursday of this past week — which also happened to be the hottest/most humid day of the year so far. I got this text from my husband:

Text Message

You would totally understand my WTF, if you knew our history with this particular unit (Carrier sucks). It’s gone up on us three times (Carrier sucks) in the 6 years we’ve had it (Carrier sucks). Twice it happened right after the technician came for the semi-annual check (Carrier sucks).

Per the beleaguered technician who showed up, the upgraded unit we had been convinced to purchase has “known issues”, but not well known enough for Carrier (sucks) to replace it. Upon his inspection, our “options” were:

  1. Stretch your hammies, because you are about to bend over and grab your ankles. Hard.
  2. Have the compressor replaced, but pay for the labor and cross your fingers nothing else goes wrong before the warranty totally expires. And if something else does go wrong, you’ll still have to pay for the labor. Even though Carrier (sucks) knows there is a problem with this unit.
  3. Buy a new unit, that will come with a new warranty. Don’t forget to be grateful that the new unit is being offered to you at a greatly reduced price, as a favor from Carrier (sucks) because they are aware of the problems with this unit.

"Rock, Hard Place" Road Sign with dramatic clouds and sky.

We opted for the new unit at the cost of a family vacation we won’t be taking this Summer for a consumer-screwing “generously reduced” price. To add insult to injury we had to wait until the following Tuesday — six miserably hot days — for the new unit to be installed.

But the experience wasn’t a total downer. Actually, we learned quite a bit. And I’m happy to share my new-found knowledge with you:

  1. Get naked! Or as close to naked as you are comfortable with. Because temperatures outside when there is no breeze will mean the main floor of your house will be about 89 degrees in the evening after a day in the mid-90s with high humidity.
  2. Sleep naked! Your upstairs bedroom is probably 10 degrees hotter than downstairs, and the beast that sleeps in between you and your partner is 75 pounds and wears a fur coat all year. Or, you could sleep naked and downstairs, where it is 10 degrees cooler. Unfortunately, there’s really only enough room for your kids on the couch.IMG_1557
  3. Save electricity! Turn off every light in the house to reduce heat production. Besides, you’ll need to save some money for the new “greatly reduced” A/C unit you are purchasing, and for the unexpected expenses of #9 you will now be incurring.
  4. No cooking! There’s no reason to add even more heat to the house by turning on the oven to make dinner. Or breakfast. Or lunch. Which is pretty much my motto, even when the A/C is working.
  5. Don’t obsess! It’s hot. It’s fucking hot. Checking the thermostat every 1/2 hour won’t change that. And it will just make you more angry every time you see that “system malfunction” message. System Malfunction
  6. Go swimming! If you are fortunate enough to have a pool in your backyard, your community, or one close by with pretty lax security so there’s little chance you’ll be arrested if you break in, go get wet. No pool access or don’t need another blemish on your rap sheet? Take a cold shower.
  7. Have empathy! Take special pity on the members of your family who can’t get any more naked than they are. We fed the dogs ice constantly.  And we tried not to complain too much when they were hogging the fans.
  8. Get creative! Remember that ice bucket your parents gave you as a Christmas gift last year? Fill it with a large bag of ice and place a fan behind it to blow cool air across the room. Stand in front of it and bitch about how it’s barely cooling the room off, let alone your naked body. Then notice the light of your neighbor’s fire pit and fantasize about how it’s probably cooler by their fire pit than it is standing naked in your family room in front of a big tub of ice. IMG_1553
  9. Spend Money! The first night of being A/C-less, we ran out and bought two big fans that cost us $60. IMG_1552We spent money on ice (see #7 and #8) twice a day. We ate dinner out. And for some reason (probably because we were delusional from the heat), we went to an air-conditioned sports mega-store and bought our youngest son a bike, along with a bike rack to haul around all four of our family bikes.
  10. Avoid sex! Because hot, grumpy, and miserable is the least sexy thing you can imagine. Which — in an ironic twist — is a waste of the whole naked thing, I’m afraid.

 


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Being First Lady – Not As Cool As I Thought It Would Be

Our boys — now 13 and 14 — have participated for more than 8 years in organized sports through our local community organization, GVAA. We tried soccer briefly, but found our niche in the following areas: baseball (for the oldest in Spring/Summer), lacrosse (for the past three years for our youngest in Spring), football (for both in the Fall),  and basketball (for both in the Winter).

And we have volunteered our time (and money) in numerous ways:

  • Taxi driver: toting our kids (and friends of our kids who may need a ride) to practices, workouts, tryouts, games, tournaments, urgent care, and end-of-season parties.
  • Baggage handler: shoving any combination (depending on the season/sport) of coolers, camera bags, lawn chairs, pop-up canopies, smelly football pads, extremely heavy catcher’s gear bags, and lacrosse sticks that don’t @#$%-ing fit within the limited length of an SUV, to haul over countless miles. Only to unpack it once you arrive at your destination and drag it all what seems like 26.2 miles to the field. And — finally — fruitlessly try to repack the vehicle at the end of the day, cussing out your morning self for being so much more spatially aware than your afternoon/evening self who wants to know how the hell all this crap fit in the car less than 12 hours ago. (It’s obviously that souvenir tournament tee shirt we bought that put us over the edge).
  • Scorekeeper: score keeping is the easy part. The real work is dealing with the parents who ask you to “rethink” that error you assigned to their little superstar when he kicked the baseball instead of catching in it his glove. Or making sure you give their kid credit for the assist on the three-pointer, when it was actually an errant throw that bounced off their kid’s head and into the hands of the player who shot the basketball. 17_times_rolling_your_eyes_was_totally_acceptable__16_
  • Groundskeeper: over the years, we have cut more grass and raked more dirt than is quantifiable. We have helped shop-vac rain off of baseball fields, spread sawdust on wet fields, and paint lines on football and baseball fields. And our HOA wonders why we don’t have any free time to so much as paint our mailbox post.
  • Photographer: photography has become a hobby, and I take photos at many of my kids’ games. I take pictures of all the players and share them via private team groups on Facebook and Shutterfly. This includes baseball, lacrosse, football, and basketball. It also involves a lot of standing, crouching, walking/running the length of the field to get a great shot or catch up with the action. I’ve also been told at least once by a grandparent “you need to move because you are in my way and I can’t see the game” (Really? Because, I was here first, granny.). And at least twice, I was chastised because I “obviously favor some kids over others, because you don’t take nearly enough photos of my kid.” (well, then, buy your own camera and take your own photos, freeloader).
  • Coach: in the no-good-deed-goes-unpunished category, this is probably the worst. No parent of a player is ever satisfied with: 1) the practice schedule, 2) the coach’s plans for skills that will be focused on during practices, 3) their kid’s playing time, 4) the fact that every game isn’t a home game, 5) weather-related delays, postponements, and reschedulings, 6) having to work the concession stand, 7) fundraisers being required in addition to the player registration fee, 8) the team mom’s blatant disregard for establishing a proper snack and drink schedule, 9) the end of season awards party menu, and 10) the fact that the grievance process has to start with the coach, who has already said he finds parental complaints to be totally unfounded and the result of “the petty BS of them trying to relive their childhood sports prowess through their kid(s), who would rather be watching Minecraft videos on YouTube than paying attention at practice.”
  • Food service worker: I consider any time spent working the concession stand, paying my penance here on earth. Because my delusional husband considers his groundskeeping (football)/scorekeeping (baseball and basketball)/coaching (basketball) work to be equal to food service work, I get stuck frying chicken tenders and mozzarella sticks, concocting walking tacos (don’t ask), smothering nacho chips and hot pretzels with cheese, waiting three minutes for a 6 year old to select what color of Gatorade they want when the line of customers is 20+ long, and — worst of all — making those damn sno-cones.Calm SnoCones
  • Philanthropist: I have supported the organization through player registration fees, in addition to all these other volunteer opportunities listed above. I have also purchased more pizza kits, cookie dough, coupon books, spirit wear, dance tickets, dine-around-town dinners, tournament tee shirts, food and drinks at the concession stand, drinkware, car decals, and team/individual photos than I can remember.

    New Pilot

    Now, we are road ready.

This year, after not much thought, my husband decided to run for President of the kids’ sports organization. For a small town of around 5,800 that pulls participants from 3 small elementary schools and one middle school, it seemed like a fabulous way to volunteer and give back to an entity that had provided so much fun and entertainment for our kids.

And he won! How fabulous that he’ll be able to help guide policy and programs to help future players and their parents through our tight-knit town’s offerings.

And me? I get to be First Lady. Here’s what wikipedia says about being the First Lady:

The position of the First Lady is unofficial and carries no official duties. The role of the First Lady has evolved over the centuries. The main role of the First Ladies, besides their private role as spouse, has been as host and organizer to the White House.[2] She organizes and attends official ceremonies and functions of state either along with, or in place of, the president.

The position is largely one of status, and First Ladies have held influence in a range of sectors, from fashion to public opinion on policy.

No official duties? Host and organizer of ceremonies and functions? Status? Influence in fashion? (we’re all going to get bling spirit wear, bitches!)

Lions Mom Bling

Lion sports mom – bling it!

And unlike that do-gooder Michelle Obama (who advocates for healthy families, higher education, and international adolescent girls education…BO-ring!), I can focus on my pet project, water conservation:

Tequila

Hot damn!

But, so far, being the First Lady is not really the life of glamour and prestige I imaged it to be. Why?

  • I don’t get a cool nick-name: Unlike FLOTUS, which sounds like a lush, tropical bloom with an aroma that transports you to an ethereal, peaceful place, my nick-name is FLGVAA (pronounced “flog-va”). Which sounds more like an S&M expert, with an unnatural leather/chain/pain fetish. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, I guess. You freaks.
  • I still have to keep my real (paying) job: According to wikipedia, since 2001, the president has earned a $400,000 annual salary, along with a $50,000 annual expense account, a $100,000 nontaxable travel account, and $19,000 for entertainment. My husband’s new presidency comes with an annual salary of $0, with a big, fat nothing else for expenses, travel, and/or entertainment. Unless we pay for it. Lame, huh?
  • We don’t get a break on volunteering: Our time as taxi driver, baggage handler, scorekeeper, groundskeeper, photographer, coach, and food service worker does not get reduced in any way. In fact, it will be even more obvious if we don’t do these things. So that doesn’t leave much time for all the potential highfalutin official ceremonies and functions of state. Seems I’ll need to continue to carve out plenty of time for all the lowfalutin crap I’m already doing. Yay.
  • And some volunteer roles are expanded: Like philanthropy. It’s not enough for us to purchase something from every fundraiser that gets dreamed up, and just call it a day. Now we have to show up for every “dine-around-town” and stay for the duration of the event thanking all the players, families and fans who show up to make a purchase for a percent of the proceeds going to our organization. If the Prez gets…say…’stuck at work late’ or ‘delayed due to bad traffic’, the First Lady has to fill in, greeting and thanking everyone. And for the fundraising dances, the First Couple can’t arrive fashionably late as has been their custom (i.e., at the point where all our friends are good and sauced) and then leave early (“to get home and make sure the kids aren’t trying to kill each other”). No. We have to show up early and stay until last call the event is over and everyone has cleared out.

All of this only means one thing — the FLGVAA’s water conservation program starts now. Bottom’s up, my people.

 

 

 

 

 

 


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Some Ground Rules for Summer Vacation

The beginning of the kids’ summer vacation happens to coincide with the week of my husband’s annual golfing vacation with his dad and brothers. How convenient is that for everyone…other than me?

So in order to give myself a little more convenience, I have decided to institute the following rules after only one day into the decidedly too-short break from someone else  watching my kids school.

Rule #1: When you are asked to clean the lint out of the dryer before the next load goes in, the lint goes one place. And that place is not on top of the dryer you were just asked to clean it out of.  By not putting lint in the trashcan, you have just moved the potential fire hazard from inside the dryer to on top of the dryer. Gross. And no.IMG_1425

Rule #2: When you are asked to help with the laundry (and once you have the whole lint thing figured out), “taking care of it” does not mean shoving the clean clothes into baskets and dropping them in the middle of the family room floor as you race back to the to play on your iPad. While I’m thrilled you can kick ass at whatever game you are playing or that you can delight in watching inappropriate videos/Vines, I would much rather have you take pride in kicking ass at folding laundry and putting it away. IMG_1427

Rule #3: We don’t need to pull out every cooler we own to figure out which one to use when we go to the pool. And once we do decide which cooler to use, we need to put away all the others before mom cracks her toe on one of them because she couldn’t see it, from carrying the last basket of clean clothes you ‘forgot about’ and left in the laundry room.IMG_1424

Rule #4: We don’t leave our size 12 canoes slides near the dogs’ dishes. Unless, of course, you like chasing Mocha and Jake in the backyard when they grab one and decide a game of keep away from the owner is the funnest damn thing ever. Which IT IS NOT.IMG_1426

Rule #5: This is a double whammy because backpacks taste like rawhide to dogs AND they cause quite the stumbling hazard for moms with that laundry basket you ‘forgot about’. Pick yours up from the middle of the floor and put it out-of-sight. Make sure it’s somewhere you won’t remember, so we can freak out the night before school starts in the fall, yelling at each other in a total panic about whose fault it is no one can remember where the #$%&-ing backpack was put for safe keeping just 9 weeks earlier.IMG_1428

Rule #6: All that shit that was in your backpack? It does not belong in the foyer. Or the floor of the foyer. Or my dining room table, the kitchen table, shoved in your closet, behind a dresser, or any other location you deem appropriate. It belongs in the trash. Because I don’t scrapbook, so just get rid of it.

IMG_1432

Rule #7: While I’m always excited about the prospect for new decorating ideas on the mantle in the family room, empty chocolate milk glasses ARE NOT DECORATION. They leave marks. They smell bad. They are tough to get clean once the milk and chocolate mixture has time to set. We can avoid all this by you putting it in the dishwasher the millisecond you are done drinking it. Or I can just stop buying chocolate syrup for milk altogether. Your choice.IMG_1431

Rule #8: iPads can be stored in a number of places. The recliner that the dog likes to jump on and sit in is not one of them.  You are tempting fate.

IMG_1430

Rule #8.5: If rule #8 is not adhered to and the dog does decide to jump in the recliner, breaking/ruining/scratching or otherwise rendering your iPad useless, it will not be replaced. And no, I will not download all those apps to my phone so you can use that instead.

I’m probably too busy cleaning lint off the top of the dryer to download apps, anyway.


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I Admit It; I Have a Weed Problem

On May 14, on our way out to my youngest son’s birthday dinner (what…you thought I would cook?),  I noticed our landscaping had gotten a bit out of control. I had my son stand next to the offending weed, and promptly posted the picture to Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook, acknowledging my lack of (any) gardening prowess:

IMG_1265

After I posted the picture, two different Facebook friends who don’t know each other and live over 1,400 miles apart posted the exact same meme to my wall, just a little over an hour apart:

Julie Meme

Merrie Meme

Well, all I have to say for myself is … #Truth …and #Lazy…perhaps even #We’reNeverFreakin’Home…and if I’m really honest, #OurHOACanSuckIt.

gardending today

Just kidding, HOA! Please don’t send me another violation notice — we’ve moved the trash cans and polished the copper roof. We’ll get to the lawn soon, I promise! Or right after baseball tournament season. So just step off, already.

This isn’t the first time my landscaping has gotten out of control. But what really gripes me is that my little patch of tulips don’t even bother blooming any more and go right to the pathetic looking stage. They might as well be weeds, too:

IMG_1263

And I obviously can’t control things, because to the left of our front door is this burgeoning thistle forest:

IMG_1262

And only 10 days after the first photo, the giant thistle to the right of our front door continues to mock me by growing at an alarming rate:

IMG_1266

I also have a kid-who-needs-his-hair-cut problem. But one suburban disaster at a time, thank you.

One of my Facebook friends responded to the post of my beanstalk with the following:

John comment

Ha ha —  very funny. Yes, it’s a huge thistle and yes it probably would produce at least a vat of soup. As if I ever have an interest in cooking anything, however.

Or weeding, for that matter.

Hi. My name is Becky. And as long as I have kids playing sports, I’m gonna have a weed problem.

 


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Becky Who?

In case you’ve been living under a rock, Beyonce dropped a visual album last weekend. Suddenly, everyone’s thirst for celebrity gossip is being quenched by Lemonade. More like sour grapes, if you ask me.

And everyone wants to know who the fuck ‘Becky with the good hair’ is. There has been much speculation about who the home-wrecker could be, much to the delight of those of us who bask in the train-wreckdom that can be celebrity.

Or maybe, everyone is just anxious to prove they are not ‘Becky with the good hair’. Like Rachel Roy (who I, too, might confuse with Rachel Ray):Skimm Image

or pop singer Rita Ora…

Eonline Becky Pic

or Full House actress Lori Loughlin…Becky Full House

Even Iggy Azalea is determined to clear her name, which — hello, you narcissistic twit — wasn’t even in the running…Iggy the Idiot

So as Beckys and non-Beckys everywhere start denying the moniker of mistress/homewrecker/cheater, this Becky is here to say…

Becky with the good hair

You know how you’d know it was me that Queen Bee was talking about? If she had sung:

Becky with a shit ton of laundry to foldLaundry to Fold

Becky with an absolute disdain for working the little league concession standSno Cones

Becky who is about 2 weeks late with the Root Touch-up In spite of what my roots would have you believe, I was not a skunk for Halloween
Becky with a bad sunburnSunburn Face

Becky with a bunch of crazy ass sports mom friends who love doing Fireball shotsSports Moms

Becky with a lack of selfie-taking skillsBad Selfie

So, let’s face it. I may be Becky with 99 problems, but being the Becky ain’t one.


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Change I Can Live With

If you’re an uncool mom like me, you don’t love/like/care about/know any of today’s one-hit wonders in the pop music world. To me, all of them are inter-changeable without any distinguishing features. Or much talent.

I became interested in music in the late-70s and 80s, and my tastes morphed as I grew up:

  • in middle school, it was classic rock icons like Zeppelin, The Doors, The Rolling Stones, AC/DC, The Beatles and others so that my street cred with the older kids I was trying to impress would be boosted
  • in high school, I swooned over bad-boy rock bands in shiny pleather pants, ripped t-shirts, too much faux zebra print, more eyeliner than Maybelline or CoverGirl could keep in stock, with hair that kept AquaNet rolling in cash
  • in college, it was punk rock/new wave, with faves like The Clash, The Cure, The Go Gos, The Tubes, INXS, Blondie, and Devo.
  • in my post-college 20s, I donned flannel so show my solidarity for grunge rock as I chased local bands and shook my head until I strained my neck muscles, to tunes from Nirvana, Soundgarden, Stone Temple Pilots, Pearl Jam, Alice in Chains and the like.

Much like my teen years in general, my musical tastes were all over the place. The one place they didn’t veer toward was pop. They have never veered toward pop.

So when some singer named Iggy

or was it Shakira…Lorde…Taylor…Demi…Salena…Ariana…Kei$ha…Katey…Meghan…Miley — I just can’t tell them apart

got all pissed that the only reason she seems to be getting attention is for the plastic surgery she’s having, I did get interested in pop music. But, Iggy, since you’re bitching about the attention you are getting for plastic surgery, I figured I would address your concerns. Not in the totally cool way that many bloggers more creative than myself write those “Dear Obnoxious Celebrity” letters, but in the STFU you whiny, questionably talented, overpaid ass sort of way. So here goes…

Iggy was quoted during an interview in which she opened up about having plastic surgery. Aside from the incredibly deep and insightful “We’re all doing it anyway” argument, she also said this:

 

So Iggy, this is what you think of people who criticize you for having plastic surgery? I agree with you – why should you be criticized for having plastic surgery when you could be criticized for…say…being totally dismissive of the opportunity to do good for others with a small portion of your ridiculously over-stuffed bank account.

But when it comes to what women — regular, everyday women — would change with $10 million in their account tomorrow…well let me give you some insight into what this woman would change.

  • I would change my employment status: that’s right bitches, PEACE OUT to working for the man full time. Except…I like what I do, who I work for, and the people I work with. So even though my husband would spend the rest of his life unemployed, eating Cheese-Its, and shouting at the xBox that he “did so press button A and his wide receiver should have run the out route and not the in route,” his wife could not. And changing my employment status would lead to…
  • Changing my commute to work: after giving my current employer time to find a replacement for me, I would then do volunteer work locally. You see, I spend 4 hours each day commuting to work, between the stop-and-go drive to the Metro station, parking and walking to the platform, the Metro ride to downtown, and then walking to my office. And I get to do it all in reverse to head home. So changing my commute to something local would give me four glorious hours back in each weekday. I wouldn’t even need a facelift because I’d be smiling so much. And all that time saved would…
  • Change the amount of time I have to volunteer in my community. I’ve always been a big believer in pay-it-forward. Even when I was laid off a few years ago, I continued to use my money to make treats and goodies for my son’s baseball team that Summer and I took tons of photos to share with the parents. I volunteered to help manage the Facebook page of our baseball league and started pages for individual teams my sons played on. I volunteered at the local center for the arts. I did pro bono work, helping a nonprofit develop a sponsorship program. I did all this while looking for a job – and looking for a job can be a full time job! The layoff meant our family had a big reduction in income and it necessitated I give up things, including (but not limited to) mani/pedis, fancy haircuts/colorings, and a gym membership. But I know the pay-it-forward approach makes me beautiful from the inside out. And how people see my personality has always been more important than how they see me physically.12804622_1160320587326262_675410197340451188_n
  • I would change my attitude about having to make dinner: Oh, who the fuck am I kidding? I would still hate making dinner. But, with $10 million at least I would feel less guilty about eating out all the time.

Oh, who the fuck am I kidding, I never feel guilty about eating out.

But one thing I wouldn’t change about myself? I wouldn’t begin liking the vacuous, self-absorbed individuals who are looking for empathy about the struggles with being scrutinized because they have so much disposable income that they use it for plastic surgery to improve themselves.

And that’s a lack of change I can live with.

 

 


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Getting Older Is a Pain in My Ass

This year, I will hit the big 5-0. It’s not until August, but my primary care doc wants me to get prepared for it and sent me to a GI doc to begin the process of prepping for a colonoscopy.

Now all those people who say I’m full of shit will have their proof. Or not.

The process includes some initial blood tests to get a baseline of my numbers and then scheduling an anesthesia-filled day at the clinic with a scope up my butt. I have to go through a cleansing ritual prior to the procedure. I quickly skimmed the informational brochure I was handed, with my eyes zeroing in on the words enema, Dulcolax, and Miralax.

Colonoscopy instructions

It was all starting to make me feel so:

Grumpy cat

Don’t we all look forward to celebrating big milestone birthdays in our life this way? Or maybe we should fete important milestones the ways celebrities do. Right Kanye?

Amber Tweet at Kanye

Hard to believe a celebrity twitter beef was happening (yeah, right) about assholes (because there are so few celebrity assholes, right?) on the day a doctor was talking to me about mine. Again:

Grumpy cat

But the biggest pain in my ass on the day that I was preparing to hear about an even bigger — and literal — pain in my ass? Actually getting to the GI doctors office.

You see, Storm Jonas had hit our area the week before and dumped 35″ on us. My husband, 2 boys, and I had spent 3 days after the storm digging out our driveway and sidewalk, bemoaning the fact we didn’t own a snow blower. And also bemoaning the fact that every neighbor we have does own a snow blower.

We had cleared all the snow and ice. But on the way out my door to the doctor’s office that morning, there was a surprise snow/sleet squall. My trek took me across what should have been the clear driveway, but turned out to be our slippery driveway. And I proceeded to:

  • lose my footing on the fucking sleet that now covered my once clear driveway,
  • start to fall down,
  • knock the underside of my chin on the bumper of my car as I went down,
  • hit my knee hard as I landed, cutting it in two places,
  • land on my right hip/lower back — the same side I had back surgery on in 2007, and
  • bump my right elbow as I landed

I laid there, having rolled into a pile of snow in front of the car, thinking:

Grumpy cat

I arrived at the doctor’s office and the wonderful nurse who did the initial workup was kind enough to clean and bandage my wounds. I was mortified that I hadn’t shaved my legs more recently, but who the hell expects to have your knee/leg looked at when you visit the GI doc? Certainly not this klutz girl.

Leg and knee

Thank you Nurse Diana for ignoring my hairy knee and leg

After the appointment, I went home and started a regime of popping ibuprofen like they were Tic Tacs, and sat on a heating pad all afternoon and evening for my aching lower back. I sat on that damn pad so long you would think I was expecting to hatch something.

However, the only thing I appeared to hatch was a realization that getting older — and being a klutz — is a literal and figurative pain in the ass.

Getting older grumpy cat

 

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