A Side of Rice

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


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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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What All Those Snow Prediction Numbers Really Mean

Unless you live in the southern or eastern hemisphere of Earth, you know that winter storm Jonas is pummeling the east coast of the United States. More importantly, the bulls-eye happens to be the area I live in.

Snowfall Predictions

There are lots of numbers and measurements being thrown around. Those are important, but I’m here to share the truth behind the numbers.

Numbers in inches: The snow started Friday afternoon, and as of Saturday morning at 9:00am we already have 15″ of snow. And it is falling at a rate of 2″ per hour until late into tonight. I’m no math wizard, but that sounds like a final snowfall total best described as 30+”, or:

  • ‘Ain’t-nobody-going-to-work-on-Monday’ inches, or
  • ‘How-the-fuck-do-we-walk-dogs-in-this-crap?’ inches, or
  • ‘Stop-arguing-over-the-damn-Xbox’ inches, or
  • ‘Watch-how-much-milk-you-drink-but-I’m-fine-because-I-bought-the-big-bottle-of-Fireball’ inches

Numbers in MPH: Another important prediction was the winds accompanying the storm. Some gusts are up to 50MPH, and these sustained winds, limited visibility, and large amounts of snow are what lead to blizzard conditions.

You know what else goes 50MPH? A freakin’ lab with cabin fever who gets to go outside after you clear a path from your deck through the yard to the area under where your giant cedar trees are.

And you know what doesn’t go 50MPH? Our other — and much more lazy — lab who, at 10:15am, is still sleeping upstairs. Along with my lazy sons and my husband.

Numbers in hours: This weather event started for us mid-afternoon Friday and is predicted to go until late Saturday — maybe even into early Sunday. That’s a potential for up to and possibly more than 35 hours of non-stop snow.

You know what else goes non-stop during a weather event like this?

  • The bitching and moaning about whose turn it is to play on the Xbox.
  • The bitching and moaning about the fact that with 40 gajillion channels on cable “there’s nothing to watch”.
  • The washing machine and dryer, because we finally have no conflicting sporting events for the kids.
  • A dog’s need to go outside — because in the canine brain, snow is infinitely more inviting than sunshine and refreshing summer breezes.

    IMG_0840

    “You humans are a bunch of candy-asses when it comes to this light dusting of snow.” – Lab who is actually equal parts lab, polar bear, and leaping kangaroo

  • A dog’s need to sit on you instead of next to you during a movie, when you finally do find something on cable to watch

    IMG_0849

    “After Age of Ultron, we get to watch Animal Planet, right?” – Lazy ass lab to oldest son, both of whom finally woke up

  • My need for Fireball because of the Xbox, cable, washer and dryer, dogs, kids, and husband.

And finally, here’s one number that I just can’t get out of my head today…only 57 days until Spring. I’m sure the Fireball will not last that long.

IMG_0850

It’s important to stock up on the essentials during a blizzard.


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My 2016 Resolutions

Here’s my list of resolutions for the coming year. There are 16 in honor of the year 2016. And I’m going to own all these bitches.

  1. I resolve to find out why our HOA thinks building a basketball court in our neighborhood will attract the ‘wrong element’. Because — quite frankly — every time I pass the penis spray-painted on the sidewalk outside my home when I walk the dogs, I’m reminded that some of the ‘elements’ already in this neighborhood are wrong. Perhaps if the little fuckers had a basketball court, they’d have more time for slam dunking and less time for vandalism.
    IMG_0767[1]

    Maybe it’s just me, but a basketball court would leave neighborhood kids with less time to craft their pornographic spray-painting skills

  2. I resolve to only drink margaritas made with Patrón. Even if my husband barks about the cost (“$50 for one fucking bottle? That’s got to be a damn misprint.”). Because for whatever reason, many  a $15 margaritas made with the good stuff (almost) never gives me a headache the next day.                          .
    bitmoji-20151231112545

    I’ve done lots of research on this – hangovers are almost non-existent when you drink the top shelf shit.

  3. I resolve to not watch Bridget Jones’ Diary every time it comes on a movie channel. Even though it does clear the family room of boys who only want to watch NFL and NCAA football, MLB baseball, NCAA softball, NBA and NCAA basketball, NHL hockey, and SportsCenter. The following movies also clear the room: Hope Floats, Mean Girls, Magic Mike, and The Devil Wears Prada because they are all chick flicks. And even the dude comedies: Dodgeball: An Underdog Story, Role Models, Old School, 21 and 22 Jump Street, and (embarrassingly enough) Get Him to the Greek elicit a “how many damn times can you watch this movie?” inquiry, followed by a quick exodus. Another go-to for room-clearing is any of the Dateline, 20/20, 48 Hours Mystery re-runs on Investigation Discovery. If I resolve to do this, I don’t know how the hell any of the clean clothes will get folded.
  4. I resolve to fold and put away my clothes the minute they are out of the dryer. Which is in complete conflict with resolution #3, because if I’m doing mindless chores, I need some mindless entertainment. Regardless of available mindless entertainment, I really should be motivated — because grabbing a pair of fresh, folded underwear out of a drawer is much easier than digging it out of a basket of clean clothes I can’t see because it is so damn dark at 5:30am.
  5. I resolve to pay less money to the owners of Proctor and Gamble for cotton and cardboard. Though — truthfully — at age 49, Mother Nature may be taking care of that for me.
  6. I resolve to take and post on Facebook fewer covert photos (with snotty commentary) of the freaks I encounter on my Metro rides to and from work.  I mean, if you can’t say something nice, post it on Snapchat, so it doesn’t live forever and there is less of a chance you’ll be sued. Am I right?
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    Barefoot on the Metro. #SmellsLikeTeenFeet

  7. I resolve to try and figure out why Keeping Up With the Kardashians is so popular and makes Ryan Seacrest ass-loads of money. And why Keeping Up With the Rices wouldn’t even generate a sponsorship from Febreze (though — trust me when I tell you — Febreze would be interested if they had to ride in the car that hauls around the Rice boys’ football gear every Summer and Fall).
    Football gear in the van

    Smells like teen spirit funk

  8. I resolve to spend less time at urgent care for possible teenage broken bones. I hope my boys will comply. Because if not, I may have to kick their asses.
  9. I resolve to not schedule doctor’s appointments when my kids have games. Otherwise I might miss a melee when a parent from the other team goes after a parent from our team in the stands that results in a holiday tournament game being cancelled in the middle of the 3rd quarter. True fucking story that I had to hear about second hand (damn it) when it happened to my oldest son’s middle school basketball team. M.I.D.D.L.E. school, people.
    parent rules

    If you can’t do either, just stay the fuck home.

  10. I resolve to have more alone time with my husband. Don’t we all resolve to do this each year, attempting to find couple time amidst going to work, kids’ sports, community obligations, chores, events, yard work, volunteer activities, etc? If someone can share the secret to doing this, I’m all ears. And my husband sends his thanks in advance.
  11. I resolve to let our dogs know: a) they don’t rule this house, b) the humans are in control, and c) that we won’t succumb to their every demand. I’ll let you know how that works out for us.

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  12. I resolve to try and explain again to my son Nick why he should not raise his middle finger every time he gets the urge. And I’ll try not to find it funny or post the evidence of him doing it on Facebook and Instagram, further cementing another year without a win in the Parent of the Year competition for me.

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  13. I resolve to try not to raise my middle finger every time I get the urge. However, it might be easier for me to abolish the word ‘fuck’ from my vocabulary. On second thought, fuck that.
  14. I resolve to spend more time making dinner and less time baking desserts. Well, let’s not kid ourselves. My family would be eating Chef Boyardee and cereal for dinner if it was up to me to nuke  order  actually make it.
  15. I resolve to not to fall for any more of those click-bait links. Except the quizzes…because I must know what type of unicorn fart I smell like, what Downton Abbey character I am most likely to marry, and what vegetable best personifies my sexual prowess. And I don’t want to miss the important stories about the 17 horribly aged celebrities, the top 10 creepiest family photos, the 30 awkward child stars who are now incredibly hot, the 16 awesome celebrity prom pictures, those 19 incredible movie mistakes, 12 celebrities I didn’t know went to Ivy League schools, the 36 incredible photos that will make my stomach drop, 13 kids with enough money to retire at age 18, and the rare photos that reveal the lives of men ruined by the Kardashians. (All real click-bait headlines!)
  16. I resolve to let you know next New Year’s Eve which of these resolutions I was able to keep. You should resolve not to hold your breath waiting for me to succeed at any of them.

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The Annual Christmas Card Photo-taking Fiasco

For many years, I was the bane of the staff at the JC Penney photo studio’s existence. I would drag my young sons and their equally enthused father to the store on a Saturday in early November, dressed in their finest Sunday best shit with the least amount of stains to get the Holy Grail of photos – the Christmas card insert.

While my kids were easily bribed with milkshakes at Red Robin if they behaved during the shoot, my husband was not as easily snookered. He would Grinch his way through the entire event, from waiting our turn, to getting the kids to sit still long enough for a nice shot (“is it really necessary to have more than one fucking pose?”), to the — in his words — “excruciatingly painful length of time it takes your mother to pick out a photo people are going to toss in the trash.” Ho fucking ho.

The past few years, I’ve taken the pictures myself at home in front of our Christmas tree and had them developed at a local discount store that may or may not rhyme with Halmart. The picture taking process consumes less than 10 minutes and my husband doesn’t have to be involved at all. Well, with the exception of having to haul the Christmas tree up from the basement so I can decorate it on Thanksgiving weekend and take pictures, have them printed, and ready early enough to get the cards out on time. Which leads to even more ho fucking ho.

Even though the process doesn’t take as long as it used to, the posing portion is definitely what takes the most time. There are a number of rejects before we get that perfect shot.

Don’t believe me? Well, here’s the proof. First we tried to get the two dogs in the picture. And you see how that worked out:

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We did finally get the money shot:

IMG_6823A

But not before I got a bunch of crap:

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The worst part was actually the individual pictures. Nick was being especially uncooperative and at one point he started crying because he didn’t know what I meant by normal smile:

IMG_6834

Teary-eyed and tired of mom being such a diva photography director

After he calmed down, we took a few more pictures. I told him he could chose the one he wanted to use. And of course he selected the one with the tear drop stains still visible on his sweater.

IMG_6831

Don’t see them…look closer…

Tears up close

Mom-induced tear stains. Lovely.

I have been doing this since 2005, with the exception of 2012 when I was laid off and didn’t send 140+ Christmas cards. Perhaps I should give up my quest for a perfect Christmas photo each year?

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Yeah…no way.

Hope your family had a very Merry Christmas — or whatever year-end holiday you celebrate!


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I Have Some Serious Kobe Numbers…Maybe I Should Retire Also

Basketball has never been my favorite sport. Not when I’m watching it on TV (college or NBA), or sitting in a smelly gym on sub-standard bleachers getting splinters in my ass while middle school teen boys make their best effort to score points and impress the middle school girls who have come to watch.

But I am impressed with Kobe Bryant’s incredible run with one team (his inability to stay faithful to one wife; not so impressive).  And his stats are amazing for what will be a 20-year career when he finally walks away from it all.

This week, he announced that he’s made the decision at the ripe old age of 37 and with a net worth of $360 million (give or take), to retire at the end of this season. At the ripe old age of 49, I believe I’ve got a net worth of $360 worth of glitter glue I will never use on projects I wish I had the time for.

With a solid decade on Kobe in terms of age, I decided to compare his career in basketball to my career in being a parent to kids who play sports. What I’ve found is that I have definitely put in some serious time, banked some serious numbers, and frankly, I should technically be ready for some serious retirement.

How ’bout we let the numbers speak for themselves:

Well, there you have it. Kobe’s 20 year career as a basketball pro vs my 13 year career as a mom. Look at the numbers I’ve amassed — and 7 years faster than Kobe. What a sparkling, shining, and shimmering example of pro motherhood.

Seems all that glitters is not just crafting glue.

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