A Side of Rice

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


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Fashion Weak

As the mother of two boys, I resigned myself long ago to the fact that when it comes to clothing, my choices to outfit them would be limited to dinosaurs, animals, super heroes, planes, construction equipment, stripes, and sports.  As they have gotten older, the choices narrowed even further to plain, minimal stripes, and (the very expensive) sports team/logo wear.

My boys hate the feel of jeans, so when we find a pair of sweatpants/shorts that fit and are deemed cool enough to be seen it, we buy them in every color they come in. Which brings us back to limits once again, as the color choices they have started gravitating to in their teen years are shades of grey, navy, and black. Hooray for the neutrals, because they will go with any of the outrageously expensive logo wear/sports team tops they pick up from the floor and sniff before shrugging their shoulders and putting on the offensive smelling item anyway.

Recently, we relented and went shopping for Fall/Winter clothes for our oldest and a few items to fill in the gaps of the hand-me-downs for our youngest. Because who doesn’t want to spend a Saturday evening in crowded rural mall, shopping with two teenage boys who could care less about clothing?

thisgirl

Our first stop was Old Navy. My husband and I spent a lot of time trying to decipher what “I dunno”, “whatever” and “sure” really meant as we held up options for our 14 year old to decide on. It got even tougher to tell what he thought as he moved into the non-verbal responses of “major eyeroll”, “shrug”, and “heavy sigh while snapping one’s head back”.

Which pretty much made me do this:

eyeroll

After finding a few sweatpants styles and some long sleeve shirts that fit – and buying them in the three neutral colors available – we headed to H&M. I’d heard the clothing was affordably priced. What I hadn’t heard about was how much I wouldn’t be hearing after being in a store that blasts hipster emo tunes. #OldPeopleProblems

The clothing options were minimal at best and we quickly determined that our decidedly non-emo sons would not find anything of interest. On our way out, I spotted this:

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$30 for a sweatshirt that comes with holes already in it? Uh…that’s a big “fuck no.”

I immediately snapped a picture and commented, “If you boys want something like this, I’ll take you to my parent’s house and you can pick one from granddad’s closet. For free.”

Next it was on to American Eagle, where I spotted this and told my husband “if you become a stripper and wear these sparkly blue underwear, perhaps we can afford all these clothes we have to buy the kids.”

img_1985

The salesgirl smirked and asked if she could help me find them in my husband’s size. My husband then rolled his eyes, shrugged, and let out a heavy sigh while snapping his head back as he headed toward the door.

By the time we got to the fourth store, my sons’ and husband’s enthusiasm for the whole shopping excursion had really waned (as if it going lower than from where it started could even be a possibility). Their diminished enthusiasm was almost inversely proportional to their growing hunger for dinner. My oldest spent a solid three minutes in the store, where he picked out 3 shirts (same style, different colors) and quickly made a beeline for the exit to discuss restaurant options with his dad and younger brother.

Our shopping trip had taken less than an hour and a half. I think we spent more time on dinner at the restaurant when you count driving to it, waiting for a seat, ordering, eating, paying the check, and driving home.

Fast forward to last night and just three weeks after buying the new clothes. My oldest walked through the family room and I yelled “Stop!”.

“Are those a pair of your new sweatpants?”, I inquired.

“Yes,” was his response.

My close to 6′ tall, size 13 shoe-wearing oldest stood while I took a photo. The new sweatpants are already too short.

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He’ll just have to hope he doesn’t grow any taller because I can’t update his wardrobe with new navy/grey/black sweatpants every three weeks.

Boys’ fashion is certainly not for the weak of heart. Or the weak of wallet.

 

 

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Party City Pooper

After a year off, our boys decided they want to go trick or treating this Halloween. Because — in their words — “why would we eat your homemade Rolo-stuffed snickerdoodle cookies, when there’s lots of free chocolate we could get?”

Is it wrong that I hope they get nothing but pretzels and Jolly Ranchers when they make the trek through our neighborhood this October 31?

On Saturday after my son Nick’s football bowl game, we went to Party City to make costume selections. Much to my husband’s annoyance, I had painted a royal blue paw on my face in support of Nick’s team for the game. I saw another mom in the store with not only face paint, but sparkles in her face paint. I said to my husband, “at least I don’t go that crazy.”  My husband grumbled back something to the effect of “any crazy is still crazy.”

While I searched the store for white M&Ms for a baking project, my husband took charge of the costume procurement. After an unsuccessful search for M&Ms, I returned to the back of the store, which was pretty much a costume clusterfuck, late Saturday afternoon, just 6 days before Halloween.

Nick was busy trying to select which ninja he would like to be. I scanned the photos of the costumes on the wall. When I noticed the prices, I remarked “I can make you a ninja costume out of a black bedsheet. We can spend the $40 we’d save on whatever chocolate you want.”

No sale.

I asked my husband where Alex was, and he said “Oh, he’s already picked his. Alex, come show mom your costume.”

And Alex showed me the package, which had this picture on it:

um...no

um…no

 

At which point I may have snapped my head in the direction of his dad and hissed:

Verbatim.

Verbatim.

 

My husband looked at me like this:

Except my husband isn't Iron Man

My husband has mastered the eye roll, but he’s no Iron Man

And said “what the hell is wrong with this thing … (grabbing the costume package from Alex and reading the name) … this SlenderMan thing?”

I muttered at my husband, “those girls…stabbing…a friend…inspired by SlenderMan,” was the best I could do through clenched teeth. Alex was puzzled, having no idea why this black and white costume with the funny long fingers was causing such an issue.

“I don’t think it’s a big deal,” my husband said. “He doesn’t even know about that.”

Luckily, my head didn’t explode and I was able to respond. Not through clenched teeth. Not because I was PMSing (ok, I was, but that’s not why this had lit my fuse). Not because I’m the meanest mom ever. Not because I was trying to be difficult and prolong the shopping experience for my husband, who didn’t want to buy costumes anyway.

But because this costume represents something that was related to a story so vile…so mind-numbing…so unbelievable. And so close to home, given that the perpetrators of the horrific crime were the same age as my son.

And my 12 year old son was not going to glorify that in any way. Nor was anyone responsible for SlenderMan going to profit from my purse.

I turned to my son and explained — more calmly than I felt —  “Alex, this costume is related to a very bad story in the media. Some young kids your age used this character as a role model in a disgusting way to hurt one of their friends. And I can’t in good faith let you go out dressed like this for Halloween.”

My husband quietly said “go pick something else, Alex.”

And without any complaining (aside from how long it would take to get the new selection since there were so many people also in desperate search of a costume), Alex picked a ninja morph suit.

Some may call me a real party pooper. And to them I say,  I’ll take being a party pooper any day, over being someone who doesn’t give a shit at all.


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I’ve Been Checked Out

Warning male readers: This post contains information about serious girl stuff. And no, not thongs.

Mother (‘effer) Nature. In her quest to annoy me as much as possible, she bestowed my period on me early the past two months.  Last month, I was wearing a khaki skirt. In the breakroom at work that morning, a co-worker pointed to my backside and said “You must of sat in something on the Metro this morning.”  (Why yes, my own bodily fluids. Thanks for noticing and telling me. Thanks for not making too big a deal out of it. And thanks for being a woman and not a man).

I then spent 10 minutes in the rest room:

  • hiking my skirt up to rinse it out in the sink using hand soap from the dispenser
  • wondering how many people on the Metro had seen this and secretly photographed it, uploading the image as soon as possible to Facebook/Twitter/Instagram/Flickr with the caption “Lady in Red” or “Life’s a Bitch. Period. LMFAO.”
  • praying no one else would enter the bathroom
  • twisting my skirt around so that the back was now in the front and I could pre-emptively laugh away any awkward glances by blurting out uncomfortably “silly me, spilled my coffee all over the FRONT of myself”.  
  • thanking my lucky stars I had some extra Tampax in my bag left over from the previous month

This month, I arrived at work one morning (in khaki pants, this time) and managed to avoid disaster by discovering my unanticipated need for Tampax when I went to the bathroom.  But this time, I was out of supplies.  Didn’t have a thing with me.  So I went back to my office (ran, really). Quarters in hand, I dashed back to the bathroom.  One quarter later, I was ready to face the day.  It ended up being a 4 quarter kinda day at the office.

On the way home from work, I stopped at the store to purchase a box of Tampax (cardboard and cotton at a quarter a pop is robbery, people!).  After scanning this one item, the automatic coupon printer spit out  two coupons.

I would have expected a coupon combination of any of the following, based on purchasing Tampax:

  • Peanut butter and chocolate, which says “we know you love — and need — the salty/sweet combo right now”
  • Tortilla chips and salsa, which says “we know you love salty; healthy salty because there are tomatos in salsa”
  • Potato chips and dip, which says “hold the tomatoes, we can give you the full salt with an extra dose of fat”
  • Häagen-Dazs® and chocolate syrup, which says “screw the salty, we know your sweet tooth is bangin'”
  • Frozen wings and blue cheese dressing, which says “hot wings and dip – we know it’s what you want for dinner”
  • Midol and mallomars, which says “we know cramps suck less with pain killers and sugar”

But no.  What did I get?

It's not even my favorite flavor of Alpo

It’s not even my favorite flavor of Alpo

Dog food and a cheese/breadcrumb mix. So, pretty much the coupon printer was saying  “Bet you’re hungry, bitch.”


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Picking Out Something, Other Than My Wedgie

I am sick of this career BS. I want to earn my money the real American way — with no hard work and some massive luck.  So, I’ve decided I’m going to start playing the lotto.

Once I win, I can over-indulge myself, relatives, friends and an assortment of con artists. Wait, that sentence has redundancies…let me try again.

Once I win, I can over-indulge an assortment of con artists. Then I can end up penniless and gripping a tattered photo of Honey Boo Boo, as I waste away my days at the RAP Sheet Acres Flea Market (Sat/Sun only) and Trailer Park.  This will be my ticket (pun intended!) to being featured on the next E! Investigates special Curse of the Lottery.

I know lots of people have special numbers that they pick all the time and never — ever — change.  But I’m going to throw caution (along with good sense and money) to the wind, and let the misadventures of my week help me pick the numbers.

For this week, here are some of my choices for however the hell many numbers it is that I am supposed to select:

  • 3130: The waist (31) and length (30) of the jeans I bought my 10 1/2 year old son, who better be getting a @#$%-ing all expense paid college football scholarship.  Just for clarification, all expense = tuition, room, board, books, my mani/pedis and our mortgage.
  • 30728:  The amount of money in dollars ($307) and cents ($.28) I spent on clothes for my 10 1/2 year old, which amounts to 3 pairs of jeans, 1 lightweight fleece jacket, 2 pairs of sweatpants and 5 shirts.  Perhaps I should play 2793, which is the average cost in dollars ($27) and cents ($.93) I paid per item.
  • 1538: The amount of money in dollars ($15) and cents ($.38) I spent on my 9 1/2 year old son because he is wearing every piece of hand-me-down clothing from his brother that I have been able to find.  But I did think hand-me-down underwear was pushing the limits of good parenting, so I bought him two packages of his own new underwear. Mother of the Year (points to self), right here people.
  • 499:  The cost of a miniature of Grand Marnier in dollars ($4) and cents ($.99), which is a key ingredient in the margarita cupcakes I was making for a friend’s birthday.
  • 683800:  My high score in Zuma Blitz this week.  Suck it, bitches.
  • 42887: the number of raindrops that hit me as I watched my youngest son play football at 9:00am on Sunday morning.
  • 42888:  the number of Sundays in a row I have missed church and blamed it on my kids’ sports activities.
  • 42889:  the number of hours I will be spending in Purgatory for missed church and other offenses perpetrated by myself upon the Catholic church.
  • 126: the number of times my husband dropped the “F” bomb during the first game of the Orioles/Yankees 2012 divisional playoff series.
  • 417:  the number of points Wendi Aarons scored against me in Words with Friends. Without cheating.  Or so she says.
  • 6865: the number of Presidential campaign ads I will be subjected to on TV and radio between now and November 6, 2012.
  • 6865:  the number of votes I wish I could cast for none-of-the-above on November 6, 2012 after I am subjected to Presidential campaign TV and radio ads between now and November 6, 2012.

What would Honey Boo Boo pick?

And now for the Power Ball picks:

  • 24: the number of cookies I need to make for my son’s class party.
  • 13: the number of hours notice I received about my son’s need for cookies for his class party, which includes the hours of midnight to 8:00am.
  • 10: the number of cuss words I launched at my son when he told me about the need for cookies at his class party.


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Schooled on Supplies

Yesterday, I was panicking in Walmart.  No, I hadn’t had my photo snapped by some freak-ass voyeur, who spotted me in my wrinkled tee shirt (plucked right from the clean [?] laundry basket), shorts with the hem coming undone and shower shoes.

Look, it was 8am and that was my Sunday best. Even if it did qualify me for the People of Walmart photo gallery.

The real reason I was in a stupor was because after careful forgetting and deliberate procrastination, I was faced with purchasing my boys’ school supplies with less than 24 hours until they had to report to juvie Walkersville Elementary.  And you know what that means.

  • the only pencil cases left are glitter/pink/Hello Kitty
  • there’s an entire palette of purple pocket folders left, since the teacher specifically noted pocket folders must be blue and green
  • blue and green sold out weeks ago, when all the well-organized and hyper-prepared moms stocked up on this shit
  • the erasable black pens are in a mislabeled box on the back of the shelf that you have to get down on your hands and knees to drag out over a spilled blue slushie

I’m sure the video of me on all fours with my ass in the air, cussing myself out and clawing for the box that was almost out of reach will be on YouTube in no time. Or it will be the feature presentation during the Funniest Security Camera Footage portion of the next Walmart shareholders meeting.

After I had gotten almost everything  (I made a trip to Target and Office Max to get what Walmart had sold out of), I pushed my cart of supplies to the check out and eyeballed an item that wasn’t on the school’s list.  

 

For the record, the liquor store had everything on my list.


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No Thrill of the Chase

Yesterday, our mailman delivered to the Rice family mailbox, the following inventory:

  • 2 catalogs for women’s clothing
  • a solicitation to join a national consumer reviewer panel
  • my subscription to Entertainment Weekly (a.k.a. Becky’s Bible)
  • the gas bill
  • 3 separate solicitations for my husband to sign up for a Chase credit card
  • 3 separate solicitations for myself to sign up for a Chase credit card


You’ll forgive us if we save the trees. You can just consider this web-based posting our rejection notice:
no thanks
no thanks
no thanks
no thanks
no thanks
no thanks


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Sayonara, Mr. Goodell

As a fan of an NFL team — who didn’t win a 7th SuperBowl this year — I admit that I’ve gone to nfl{dot}com to buy more than my fair share of shirts, jerseys, jackets, sheets, comforters and plenty of other crap. But then came this e-mail from NFL Commissioner Roger Goodell last Friday.

No less than 7 hours after Japan was struck by immeasurable horror in the form of an earthquake and tsunami, Mr. Goodell had the nerve to send out an e-mail to NFL fans bellyaching about the fact that filthy rich owners and ridiculously rich players can’t come to an agreement. He even goes as far as to say about the breakdown in negotiations – “It was a deal where everyone would prosper”. Just what we fans — who are the reason you prosper — want to hear.

Mr. Goodell, on a day when great loss of life should have been everyone’s concern, you chose to show how greed and narcissism were all you cared about.

As an NFL fan, I’m embarrassed. As a human being, I’m appalled. And as a consumer, I’m done purchasing your shit.