A Side of Rice

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


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Our Last Supper

I’ve been hobbling around on my foot for a year and a half, which I thought was just a twisted ankle taking too long to heal. PSYCH! It was really a partial rupture to my Achilles that after every conservative therapy possible, required surgery on May 31 to repair/rebuild. And removal of the bone spur jutting out of my heel. Go big or go home, right, bitches?

I learned a number of things during my post-surgical recovery:

  • the anesthesia you can get will be so good, you’ll have no idea who dressed you after surgery, how you got into the car after surgery, and whether or not you were wearing a bra the first few days after surgery
  • when entering your house after surgery via the practical (for the temporarily one-legged) but not very graceful method of butt scooting, refrain from placing your hands on the metal door frame on a hot, Summer day
  • if you must enter your house butt-scooting and placing your hands on the metal door frame plate on a hot, Summer day, be sure to do it when there is plenty of anesthesia still coursing through your body so that you barely feel the burn
  • Christian Louboutin is missing out on huge bank by not catering to the post-surgical marketJokes2
  • just because you’ve had surgery, doesn’t mean you can’t play “who wore it better?”

Jokes1

  • dogs make the best nursing assistants
  • never start taking pain killers if you don’t also take stool softener
  • the maximum number of days one can go without a shower before smelling oneself is no longer than 3 days — tops!
  • there will always be some entrepreneur that will make you feel guilty about recovery, and shame your (literally) lame ass to get off of itiwalk05
  • your knee scooter makes an excellent margarita caddy, after a long day of sitting around a baseball field watching your kid playIMG_0442
  • when your friends extend kindness – accept it

Because I was going to be fairly immobile — and not able to use my left foot at all — for 6 weeks, my friend Rebecca set up a Meal Train for me. She invited friends from many of the sports families in our community to participate. I protested this and Rebecca replied with “just shut it and let people do something nice for you for a change.”

So I shut it. The kindness started the evening of my surgery, with a delivery of fried chicken, mac ‘n cheese, and probably some other yummy stuff that I can’t remember now. I barely recall my friend Michelle bringing it by, but I’m pretty sure I gave her a hug from my horizontal location on the couch. Sorry, Michelle, if I was braless…I can’t seem to remember if I was wearing one after surgery.

There were kind gestures and messages…

General June 4General June 16General June 20General June 21General June 22General June 22_2General June 24General June 24_2June 30

There were also special deliveries…

General June 3

General June 8

We were well fed 31 days – everything from full meals to gift cards for local restaurants:

June 1June 2June 3June 4June 5June 6June 7June 8June 9June 10June 11June 12June 14June 15June 17June 17_2June 19June 21June 22June 22_2June 23June 26June 28June 29July 1July 2July 3

On July 3, the final delivery from the Meal Train arrived.  One of my friends replied to a post with this:

Tami

What a fabulous reminder of the kindness, compassion and community outreach that was exemplified by our last supper. All our suppers, really.

#LifeIsGood  #WalkersvillePeepsRock

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I Am the Week Link

I began a new job this week after being laid off last year in April.  I’m stoked to be back in the land of the gainfully employed, since folding laundry, cleaning the kitchen and other domestic duties pay for shit when you aren’t “working”.   Editor’s Note: I dare you to tell any stay-at-home mom she isn’t a “working” mother. At your own peril.

Of course, I’m stoked about my new working gig…uh…until the Publisher’s Clearing House Prize Patrol knocks on my door with my $5 grand a week.  Then it’s days filled with bon bons and vegging out to the Lifetime Movie Network!

While I am very excited about this new professional opportunity, I was worried my baseball family might be a little less than enthusiastic.  Being back at work will really cut into my baking time.  And they have a vested interest in my baking time…

Last year, I kept busy during non-job search time by baking.  My baseball family reaped the sugary rewards.  In 2012, between late March and July, I made over 2,000 cookies/brownies/cupcakes for players, coaches and families who came to the 34 games our boys played.  This included weekdays and weekends — single games, double headers and tournaments where we played up to 3 games in one day.  Not to mention the homerun cakes I made for the 4 boys who hit one, as well as a few birthday cakes and other special baked goods for Mother’s Day, Father’s Day and our post-season party.

It looks just like a baseball, doesn't it?

It looks just like a baseball, doesn’t it?

But given the nature of my baseball “family”, I should not have doubted them for one minute.  On Monday, I received this e-mail via Facebook from one of the moms:

Your baseball family is really excited about your new job. (Okay we’re also a little worried about cookie production but we’re trying to be strong…) We have a week of giving back to our most giving baseball mom planned to make your first week of work transition a little easier. Plan on dinner deliveries on Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday (between 5:30-6:00 if that works), and a basket delivered on Wednesday afternoon. Congrats on your new job!!!

The container had gift cards - but do I have to wait for an emergency to eat the chocolate?

The container had gift cards – but do I have to wait for an emergency to eat the chocolate?

Even though we are not “in season”, my baseball family is still thinking of me.  We are all linked together by our commitment to our boys, our commitment to a strong program, and our commitment to being good community citizens.

And at the end of the day, I’m honored to be a link in such an amazing chain of families.


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I Need to Brush up on My Martian

Let’s face it. That book published in the early 90s with the silly sounding title was right. Men define things a lot differently than women.

Take the phrase “I’ll clean up from dinner”, for instance. When women utter these words at the conclusion of a meal, it is usually to an empty room because the rest of the family — including the dog — has vanished. They disappear faster than my IQ points when I’m watching an episode of Jerseylicious.

When a man utters these words, it is usually after the table has been cleared, with the utensils, plates and cups safely stowed in the dishwasher. Since we [women] all know the worst part of clean up is the dirty dishes used to prep all the food (a.k.a. “microwave safe container” in my house), we [women] welcome the opportunity to not have to scrub pots and pans. Right?

Except in my house, here’s what “clean up from dinner” looks like when the phrase is uttered by my husband:

Visual #1:

The stove top, the morning after I made enchiladas — and not from a kit. I made the filling, rolled the tortillas and baked them myself. That’s b-a-k-e-d, not n-u-k-e-d, people. This dinner took me 45 minutes longer to prepare than my normal dinner. Which is to say, I had to spend a whole 50 minutes in the kitchen. When I asked why all the leftover enchiladas were not tupperwared up and placed in the frig, he said “well I figured you’d get tired of eating so many enchilada leftovers for lunch this week, so why save them all? But I did cluster the pans on the oven because they needed time to soak”. Si, senor, however it would have been nice if you added a little agua to the pans to assist in the overnight soaking.

Visual #2:

The sink and counter, the morning after I made tacos. While I appreciate my husband’s ingenuity at the hanging frying pan over the sink, I really wish he would have just washed it out with the scrubber sponge, dish soap and warm water that are always available. At least this time, he put water in the pan, as well as the bowl to the left of the pan with ice cream remnants.

What’s Martian for “I need a margarita”?


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Real Food. It’s What’s for Dinner. Once a Year.

My sister, her husband and their 3 kids stopped by our house for an overnight visit this past Wednesday, during their annual Summer pilgrimage from Canada. Our boys had football practice, so my husband and I figured the best dinner solution was to order pizza for everyone when practice was over.

My brother-in-law offered to go to Wegman’s and pick up a few things to grill for dinner instead of ordering pizza. “Sure”, I said. I mean, I like burgers on the grill and nuked Stouffer’s mac and cheese as much as the next person.

Except his shopping list didn’t include any hamburger or mac and cheese. This is what he brought home:

  • garlic flavored hummus
  • gourmet crackers – who knew there was something better than a Ritz?
  • fresh basil
  • fresh mozzarella
  • yellow peppers
  • gourmet chicken breasts
  • a whole white onion
  • fresh garlic
  • mini dessert cakes
  • strawberries
  • real cream
  • and more than one potato (up yours, Dan Quayle!)

Since I had no idea what to do with any of these ingredients that lacked the preservatives and frozenness that I am typically accustomed to when I “cook”, I decided to stay the hell out of his way.

There were a few requests he had while he was busy whipping up dinner. Literally people … he whipped the cream he bought. I told him I had Cool Whip in the frig, but he made the same face Molly Ringwald did as teenager Samantha in Sixteen Candles, when her grandmother suggested she take Long Duck Dong to her high school dance.

He asked me where I kept my garlic press. I told him that my garlic comes out of jar, in the pre-chopped format.

He asked me where my fresh Rosemary was. Puzzled, I told him none of my foul-mouthed and inappropriate friends had been invited to join us for dinner.

He asked where my whole pepper corns for grinding were. I showed him the shaker on the table with the pre-ground pepper. I’m not interested in that much exercise while I spice my food.

The evening’s menu consisted of garlic hummus and fancy cracker appetizer, fresh mozzarrella caprese (I did have olive oil and balsamic vinegarette), marinated grilled chicken, grilled peppers and onions, baked potato wedges and individual strawberry shortcakes. It was the best meal ever made in my kitchen. And the bonus was that none of the Rices’ bodies rejected the good food, or went into shock from the freshness of the ingredients.

Unfortunately, my family is destined for another year of nuked nibbles and pre-packaged, preservative-filled provisions until Uncle Jonas once again appears to fete us with his culinary creations. I hope we can all hold on that long.