Mr. Rice Gets New Guts

I sewed Rice myself for home economics class in grade seven. He was so named because, well, he was filled with rice. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Mr. RIce


After *cough* years, Rice started to smell. It was that stale stank of old rice that has lived in one too many basements. Rice was so worried and self-conscious. Did the other Friends hate him now? Was he trash? What would happen to him? What would he be without his guts? A sad sack, that’s what. A very sad sack indeed.

(Not to be confused with Guts the Shark Friend.)



Rice sat and worried and worried about his problem, when Prince came up to him.

“Ahhhh Mr. Rice. You are worried about your putrid smell, yes?”

“Prince, please,” Rice responded wearily. “Not now.”

“Ahhhh, but Prince can solve your problem,” the toad coooed. “You need new guts, Mr. Rice. Only a total gut replacement will do.”

“Gut replacement,” the homemade frog replied. “But without my guts, I won’t be me.”

“Oh, no. No no no no no non,” Prince admonished. “You are not your guts. Your guts stink, Mr. Rice. They really, really stink. They need to go. You know, really Mr. Rice. You will feel better and very much yourself.”

Rice brightened.

“Oh yes, you will feel better than you have in years, Mr. Rice. Just think of your spiffy new polyester gutsssssss.”

“Polyester?!?! But then I won’t be me!”

“Oh Mr. Rice, you will be sooooo much better,” Prince said in his exagerated French accent. “And you will never smell as absolutely terrible as you do right now. Most of the other Friends are polyester, Mr. Rice. Not everyone can be premium beanie baby like Prince.”

“I know, but I’m Rice,” Rice lamented. “I don’t want to change my name to Polyester.”

“Oh hahahaha! Oh Mr. Rice, you do not have to change your name,” the occasionally wise, always arrogant toad laughed heartily. “Mr. Rice, Mr. Rice, Mr. Rice, you are very funny for a frog. Oh ho ho ho ho ho oh!”

Rice did not look amused.

“No, you are very much Mr. Rice, Mr. Rice,” the toad got serious. “You know, Prince calls you Mr. Rice as a sign of respect. Perhaps your new name shall be Mr. Rice.”

“Mr. Rice,” the frog said hesitantly.

“Say it louder, Mr. Rice!”

“Mr. Rice! Mr. Rice! Mr Riiiiiiiiicccccccceeeeee!!!!!!!”

“You kno-ow, Prince is looking for a best friend,” Prince said, wiggling his eyebrows if he had any. “Mr. Rice, if you would do me the honour of best friending. Perhaps weeeeeeeee could have many adventure together.”

So Mr. Rice was blessed with a new name and new polyester guts by Dr. Troy and he and Prince are still best friends and have many wacky hijinks together, some of which will appear in this very blog.

Mr. Rice learned that it’s what’s on the outside that counts when you’re a stuffy Friend (and especially when friends with Prince).



World Sjögren’s Day

Four posts in one day?!?! Whoa, slow down.

I just wanted to make a quick note about Sjögren’s syndrome and how it has affected my life.

I was diagnosed in 2007 or 2008. You know it’s funny, I can tell you the exact dates of being diagnosed with scleroderma and PBC, but the only thing I remember about being diagnosed with Sjögren’s is that it was close to a friend’s birthday. I remember that because I had an eye patch and a cane at her birthday party. I had an eye patch because I had torn my cornea due to dryness.

That’s what Sjögren’s does; it makes you dry out. It attacks the moisture and mucous producing glands in the body, most often showing up as dry mouth and eyes, sometimes affecting internal organs, as everything in the body requires a proper fluid balance.

I have my lacrimal ducts cauterized to make the most of the tears I have. I use drops and a mouth spray and sometimes my kidneys go out of whack for awhile. It contributes to my fatigue and constant thirst.

Sjögren’s sucks.

Living with ghosts

I’ve come to both love and loathe the quiet moments. I love the sleep. I loathe the dreams.

Hey now, this post is not all doom and gloom, though there will be a fair bit of that going on. Look beneath, though, and you’ll see the shine. It’s always there under the shit.

I live with ghosts. Not the boo woo kind. Kind of the boo hoo kind. Ghosts of touch. Ghosts of laughter. Ghosts of loss and love. Ghosts of those gone away and those gone forever.

I sit with ghosts. They surround me. Sometimes I feel them drown me. But I sit with them. Stoic. Trying to make peace.

I love the ghosts. I cling to them like they give me life. I cling to them like I cling to my memory boxes, terrified of forgetting, itching to move on.

I never want to forget, so I live with ghosts and they change me. I talk to potatoes and I feel less alone.

I live with ghosts, but they don’t haunt me.

I live with ghosts, so I don’t live alone.


Perfectly Lovely

I’ve set myself up a little writing space on the front porch in hopes that it will encourage more writing. I’ve got some herbs growing in the corner and sometimes a little bird will come and land on the railing, sing a little song and take off again. I’ve got my Grumpy Bear mug full of tea, Earl Grey, hot. The wind is rustling the big trees in the front yards, occasionally loosening a leaf or two. My space is perfectly lovely and it is all mine.

Don’t Wanna

Ok, so I’m avoiding cleaning. I know I have to do it. I have a friend staying over this weekend for my birthday. Still, blah, I don’t wanna. For the first time in awhile, my calendar is blissfully blank today. Scrubbing up shower scuzz is much less appealing than going out for a walk or even just watching Netflix all day.

How do you stay motivated when you just don’t wanna?

I tend to do 15 minute spurts. 15 minutes of cleaning, or exercise, or whatever it is I just don’t feel like doing. Fifteen minutes goes by so quick these days, but it can be plenty of time to get something done.

Ugh, time to take my own advice again and scrub up that shower scuzz. Later!