There she goes blogging about food again.

I love rice.

I really and truly love rice. It's great with any meal. You can eat it salty or sweet. It looks great on a plate (or in a box with a fox).

You can serve your protein on a bed of rice and it looks like you might know more about cooking than you really do.

And rice is just delicious.

So when BzzAgent invited me to be in the Mahatma Jasmine & Basmati Rice campaign, I got giddy. Because I was going to be getting free rice (not that rice is in any way expensive in the first place, but it's RICE!).

So my rice came and I've been eating it every day since (not on the honeymoon, though, seeing as I wasn't at home). And so I'm going to do my word-of-mouth (er, type-to-eyes) duty and tell you that you should eat Mahatma rice, too.

Why? Because it's freaking delicious. Jasmine rice just ... feels better. It's kind of sticky and goes so well with salmon. And with a rice cooker, making it is easy. Hell, I can do it. And I've done horrible things to rice before. One time in high school, I had to make rice pudding for a class party. Well, there was rice and there was pudding, but I'm pretty sure the fact that it crunched was why no one ate it. Seriously. No one touched it. It might have been because some of the grains were black--which I'll never figure out why. Come to think of it, was it even rice?

Anyway, Mahatma rice is easy...like Sunday morning, only without the hangover. As for the Basmati rice, just try and say that word without smiling. Baaaahz-mah-tee. Not to mention, kinda tastes nutty and smells good.

Which may sound weird. Because most of the time, rice doesn't smell or taste like anything. That's because, my friend, you're probably eating that crappy microwaved instant stuff. That's not Thai rice (whisked over here on the backs of magical unicorns*). Mahatma rice is aromatic and aged so it's premium. And the packaging ain't bad.

So that's my Bzz. Go get yourself some rice. It's a great mid-afternoon snack. I should know.


*Mahatma rice is not whisked over to the states on the backs of magical unicorns. It arrives via Yeti.

The friend suggestion on Facebook leads to embarrassment.

We all have someone in our past that we pretend never existed.

Don't deny it. There's someone out there that will make you yack upon site.

And now, with the handy dandy Friend Suggestions on Facebook, they might just randomly pop up on your computer screen.

Which will cause you to vomit all over your desk, and your boss to stare at you like you're infected.

Then you'll have to find some paper towels (which are never close enough to the cubicles) and get them damp, then proceed to clean the upchuck from your keyboard, computer screen, and probably floor.

All because Facebook likes to instigate awkwardness.

I can't update my privacy settings fast enough anymore.

I'm scared.

Over the last few days, some insane videos have been traveling through the cables and onto our screens.

They show the latest-and-greatest PhotoShop capabilities and forensic image enhancing softwares.

They give us a small taste of how easy it's getting to completely manipulate photos or make teeny, pixelated images clear again. (It's possible now, it just takes hours and hours. This new software looks like it slices that time into hundredths.)

This is tragic.

Nothing is going to be real anymore. And clients are going to expect us to be able to do anything (and they kind of already do---and it sucks).

So when the insane, frazzled client calls the designer at 10:30 at night demanding that she wants a photo of her cat to be her company logo, here she took a picture with her camera phone in the dark and she can email it right now. And since the fancy designer has all of this awesome software because that's what designers have because "designers make so much money," the designer won't have any excuses. Because the designer WILL be able to use that awful image of a cat. And salvage it. And clean it up. And make it look usable (but not good because using a photos of a cat as a logo is a stupid idea, although it gets asked all of the time, trust me).

Clients already don't listen. And now they'll just shout louder because technology is now matching their impossibly insane demands.

We're fucked.

Yes, I am changing my name.

It comes as a shock to many--I'm taking my husband's last name.

After all, I've been branded as a loud-mouth, girl-power, independent woman. This usually translates into feminism of insane proportions.

But I'm taking my husband's name. And here's why.

Before I met Cooter, I thought I would keep the family name that has been mine since before birth. After all, why should I have to change "who I am for some man?"

But as I dated and fell in and out of love, I got a bit soft. I thought that I'd take my future husband's name, but keep my birth-given one for business purposes. Or at least where the future kids were concerned.

Then I hooked up with THE ONE. And sharing became so easy--second nature actually.  I happily share my bed and closet. There's no hesitation with merging our funds. And we'll (hopefully) be mixing DNA someday to create teeny, super-awesome people.

So what's the big deal with sharing a last name?

I'm stupid in love with the guy. And I will be for a very very very long time. Taking his name doesn't seem like something that society forced upon me. It just seems natural, organic, right.

Plus, his name (our name) sounds really good with my name. And how badass is it that I get the option to change my name? That in itself is very empowering.

In all fairness, though, he gets my name, too. I dubbed him the King of Awesome. Funny enough, the business card that started the whole queen-of-awesome thing was put together by him.

Coincidence?

No one wore jeans. And then they all ate pie.

So I'm a married woman now. And it's no different than before except for the new ring and fancy plates.

It's just as joyful and happy as before. And believe me, we are joyous.

So my advice to those who are getting married--do what you want.

We had pie instead of cake. And it was the bomb.

We wrote out own vows. And they were epic.

We banned Beyonce and Fergie. And the people danced all night.

We risked the weather. And we had scullers row past our nuptials.

Even if every plan didn't pan out, it was still perfect. And now I have a great husband and a trunk full of memories.

'Til death, my friends.

My watch is smarter than me.

I'm scared.

Of my watch.

Because it is aware.

It's one of those watches with the day of the week and the day's number displayed (no month, mind you).

So when I put it on today (totally expecting to have to adjust the date seeing as last month was 28 days long and the watch usually runs through 31) I go to adjust the date.

And it was already set to 3.

How did the watch know? I haven't set it myself. I haven't worn this watch in over a week.

How did it know?

When I saw the 3, I had to question myself. Because I wasn't even sure today was a 3.

But it is.

My watch is smarter than me. Because without me telling it what month it is, it ... just ... knew? Is that possible?

That or I'm officially insane. Both are plausible explanations.