Reader's Choice Blog

Patchwork Blog

Methinks that Barb and I need to sit down and plan our blogs a little bit more. The week just sped by, and then Sunday rolled around, and we, again, had no clue what we were going to blog about.

We decided to leave it up to our Facebook friends, and we offered the hefty reward of a mention in today’s blog. We got two responses. We decided to each take one and do a patchwork sort of thing because, you know, that’s what happens when you plan poorly. Learn from our mistakes and stay on the high road, folks.

a crazy combo. kind of like us.

My topic?

Top 10 Things to Do When Snowed In

10. Play in the snow with your dog (if you have one). If you don’t have a dog, then sit on your porch and throw snowballs at the neighbor kids. When they whine to their parents and the parents come yell at you, throw snowballs at them, too. Get to know your neighbors over snowball fights and potential litigation.

9. Realize that your furnace isn’t working and nearly freeze to death waiting for the furnace repair dude to show up. Get mad at me because this will never happen to me because a.) my furnace is brand new and b.) my landlord’s fiancé is a furnace repair dude.

8. Bumper skiing. A parking lot is probably not practical for this in a “snowed in” situation, but your street probably won’t be very busy.  This is another neighbor-friendly activity. It’s much more entertaining than some random-ass barbecue.

ski mask may help with tire spray.

7. Dress your cat in doll clothes and take pictures for Instagram. Do this until the cat is on the verge of scratching your eyeballs out, then give the little dude/dudette a break. In an hour or so? Do it all again.

6. Read your favorite winter-themed book. Ideally, serial killers will be involved.  In the book, not actually in your house. That would kind of suck balls. Unless you managed to handle business, in which case, hide him or her (who are we kidding, most serial killers are dudes.  Hide HIM) in the basement and let the furnace fixer dude take the rap. It’s his fault for taking so long to get there.

5. Horrify Melissa Ann with your response to her suggestion of a top ten list on your blog. Then again, she’s probably digging it because she may just be as twisted with you.

Melissa and Dissy at Cleveland Pagan Pride.

4. Curl up on the couch with the dog/s, cat/s, pythons, hamsters, guinea pigs, turtles, goldfish, etc…, pop a large bowl of popcorn, and watch movies that remind you that it will maybe, one day, be summer again.

3. Shovel your driveway and sidewalks. Do the same for your elderly neighbors, the ones who don’t get around so well, and the ones you like a lot. The ones you only like a little bit get to help you because this is a lot of work if you’re a popular gal/guy. All of the displaced snow gets piled at the end of the driveway belonging to the neighborhood dickbag.

2. Make a snowman murder scene. This is another one where you can involve the whole neighborhood, then you can have a snowman murder epidemic. Make sure to not put your good axes and machetes with the snowmen. You don’t want them getting rusty.

Google Images never, ever lets me down.

1. Spray water on a long stretch of your lawn and take the kids out to play slip ‘n slide. If any neighbor kids want in on this, they have to bring a signed waiver, or their parents can come over and play too. Make sure to set up a beach umbrella (it’s in the shed, you forgetful fuck), and play hula music to set the tone.

Notice: if you’re the kind who needs to be told that this is a joke, then do the world a favor and never get on the internet again.

Now let’s see what Barb is going to talk about…

What did Facebook decide I should write about today?

Monday morning traffic jams, why are we all in such a hurry to get somewhere we don’t want to be?

Thanks Richard, nothing like a good existential crisis on a snowy Sunday 😉

Rick and his lovely wife, Laura.

Obviously, the main reason we all go to work is because we’re not independently wealthy. People have the strangest habit of enjoying things like eating and shelter.

We’ve all heard the platitude about loving what you do so it never feels like work. Which is awesome for the twelve people that actually happens for. For the rest of us, we have to make a living.

Interestingly enough, I read something earlier today about one of those snotty rich people who lose it all and have to live as one of us peasants for a while. These are supposed to be heartwarming tales of lessons learned, but I’ve always found them infuriating. Why would we be proud of some dickhead for finally realizing us poors are human when they become one?

Getting back to the original question, we’re rushing because we’re irritated that we have to go slog through another week, yet grateful that we have a job to get to. Which is the perfect mixture to cause all of us to be crab-asses. And probably the reason Jay won’t let me drive a monster truck. Or a tank. He never lets me have any fun. (from Dissy… and it’s just another way we are trying to rush the week away.)

He never lets her have any fun.

I’m all, “That would be so awesome!”

And he’s all “We don’t have bail money!” (from Dissy: you mean like when we leave the house together?)

See what I put up with?

Hope your commute goes smoothly, and one day we get to have monster truck races!

Cent’anni Bitches!

WTF Friday: vol. 6

What’s that Smell?

For those of you who’ve been paying attention, I’m sure you just knew we’d have to talk about this mess:

Gwyneth Paltrow Sells ‘This Smells Like My Vagina Candle’ On Goop Site

is that a good thing or a bad thing?

Goop has been THE place for overpriced, batshit crazy stuff that no reasonable person would have thought existed, but we’re on a whole new level here.

Apparently, the candle smells like geranium, bergamot, cedar, damask rose and ambrette seed.

Setting aside the fact that it should not take an entire paragraph to explain the scent of a candle, Gwyneth, your twat does not smell like this. No one’s twat smells like this. It sounds like what someone who has never been near a human vagina might think they’re supposed to be like.

And the best (worst?) part. This thing is SEVENTY-FIVE FUCKING DOLLARS!!
AND CURRENTLY SOLD OUT!!!

Personally, I’ve pretty much given up on humanity, what about you Dissy?

My biggest question, Ms. Paltrow, is “does your vag smell that good, or that bad?” To me, that’s not necessarily a combination that’s going to smell wonderful. I am, however, willing to be wrong, but I’m thinking “over-priced shit-stain” would be a more suitable name.

I think, however, we oughtn’t speculate on Gwyn’s vag. We don’t know. Maybe it does smell like that. Maybe the teenage boys should coin a new phrase. When I was a youngster, it was “you smell like fish.” Maybe now, it could be “you smell like Gwyneth Paltrow.”

I’d probably buy a candle with that label just because I find it amusing, but seventy-five fucking dollars? No. What the hell are people thinking spending this kind of money on a goddamn candle? Me? I’d have gone for the jade egg.

This is a much better value at 39.99.

Until next week, folks!

Cent’anni, Bitches!

Store Bought Serotonin

If You Can’t Make Your Own Serotonin, Store Bought is Fine

The other day, I was talking to Dissy about how I still chuckle to myself a bit when I think about the day my doctor gave me my antidepressant prescription.

After some trial and error, my doctor decided we were going old-school, and prescribed me Prozac. Why is this funny? To answer that, we have to jump into our wayback machine. The first antidepressants came out in the mid-1950s, and they had a terrifying list of side effects, that essentially took over the lives of patients on them.

When Prozac hit the market in 1987, promising all the benefits without the problems, it became hugely popular. Depression was slowly shedding the massive stigma that comes along with mental health issues, mostly among women. Which would have been a great thing, if not for the fact that people suck. Like, all the time.

Starting within a year of its introduction, Prozac became the go to joke for every mediocre dude who wanted everyone to think he was funny. All you have to do is make sleazy, sexist remarks about how middle-aged white women were all drugged out of their minds because they’re all crazy, and you’re suddenly a comedian.

When I was first diagnosed with anxiety and depression in my mid-20s, I spent most of my formative years being flooded with the message that these weren’t real illnesses. Instead,they were proof that women were, by their nature, unstable nutcases.

Naturally, I resisted these diagnoses, not wanting to believe I was one of those useless broads who couldn’t handle reality. Interestingly enough, mental health issues don’t just go away if you ignore them hard enough. Especially not when you’re in a horribly toxic relationship with someone who likes to deliberately make things worse. After all, if everyone knows your wife is a nutjob, who’s going to listen if she’s ever brave enough to seek help for the abuse you’ve been inflicting on her for years?

Fortunately, I was finally able to get rid of the dirtbag, and eventually started dating, then married Jay. Being the amazing human being he is, Jay started pushing me to take better care of myself. Apparently, running yourself into the ground trying to do everything for everyone isn’t particularly healthy. Imagine that!

 So first came therapy, and then I came to the realization that life would suck a lot less if I had medication to help my brain do the things it couldn’t do on its own.  I tried several other prescriptions, which didn’t work well for me, and so the doctor decided to try out old faithful.

Bottom line, we’re all fucking disasters. Everyone goes through shit, so if you’re having a really hard time, get some help. Maybe you need to see a therapist. Maybe you need medication. Or maybe both. There’s no reason to stubbornly continue suffering for years, because you think you’re supposed to just deal with it. Anyone tells you different? Fuck ‘em.

Cent’anni Bitches!

Witchy Wednesday: Take 6

Hello All!

This week, we’re answering more reader questions. Remember, whatever you want to know, say the word!

~ Barb ~

A lot of people were curious about various aspects of spell work, so I’ll tackle those first.

Q.  How often do you practice?

A.  The thing to keep in mind here is, there is a difference between types of ritual. There are the eight yearly rituals for holidays, which are generally celebratory. Some people choose to also hold ritual on full and/or new moons every month, which can include spell work if you choose. You can also decide to do workings whenever you feel it’s necessary. The important thing is to make sure you carefully research and make sure all your T’s are crossed and I’s dotted. The Universe has a very…interesting sense of humor.

Q.  Talk to me about love spells, I’ve heard they’re really bad, why is that?

A.  My big issue with love spells is you’re interfering with someone’s free will. That’s not okay, and you’ll never have a healthy relationship with someone based off manipulation. Not to mention, things get awfully squicky in the consent department when you get into more, shall we say, intimate aspects. If you want to bring love into your life, the best thing to do is work on yourself. Everyone has things that could be improved, so put your time and energy into making yourself the best you possible. While doing that, there’s nothing wrong with asking the Universe to help you be more open to what you want. Best rule of thumb? If you’re contemplating something that would probably be considered romantic in an 80s era movie, just don’t.

Q.  What about money spells?

A.  Money spells can be perfectly fine, as long as you’re really careful. First and foremost, if you’re struggling financially, don’t go spend $100 at the local shop buying supplies for a money spell. People have done this, and it’s just illogical. Also, as Dissy mentioned previously, be specific and exact in your wording. If you aren’t clear, things can and will go sideways. Go back to last week’s episode and read what she wrote there, it’s great advice.

~ Dissy ~

I’m thinking Barb covered these really well. I can’t think of anything I would need to add. Bottom line? Don’t be a dick.

I was also asked about hexing.  Yes. That is a thing. It’s a thing that can and does happen. It isn’t something that should be entered into lightly, and it’s not something that should be done in the heat of anger. Be careful what you wish for, and may the odds be ever in your favor. ALWAYS ask yourself
“is it really worth it?”

Always remember… the most potent magick is done for one’s self by one’s self.

Have a great rest of your week!!

Cent’anni, Bitches!

Tandem Tuesday: chapter 5

Emily Rose Calhoun was having the time of her life. She and Kat had been on many vacations together, but she went out of her way to make this one special, for it very well could be their last.

“Breathe, ol’ gal… breathe. You don’t know yet what will happen.”

Remembering the plane trip, Em had to chuckle. That offer to pay her back? What was Kathryn thinking? Well, it had to be that fierce independence; she was so like Gayle that way. Kat certainly did want to make her own way in the world, and there was nothing wrong with that. Hard work and determination are never bad characteristics to possess. Even when you will inherit the family fortune.

Em had never been one to flaunt wealth. Certainly, she and Kat had lived a comfortable life, but she was pretty sure that her granddaughter was not fully aware of the extent of their wealth; otherwise, Kat wouldn’t have acted like Em was like any other senior on a budget.

“Pay me back.  Pfft… dear one, it is I who owes you more than you will ever know.”

When Kat came to live with her, Em stepped down from the board of her family’s charitable organization. “Retirement,” is what she called it. She wanted to make sure she was always there for the granddaughter who had lost so much at such a young age.  And she always was. Without fail.

“But how am I going to tell her?” the thought plagued her.

Any way you sliced the pie, it was time to tell Kat everything. She deserved to know.

Em knew she still had a great many years ahead of her, so it’s not like it would be a deathbed confession. She just needed to have done with it so she and Kat could live the rest of their lives with the absolute truth between them.  Maybe then, she could get Kat to come home. The house was so empty without her.

Em’s mind was made up. Before she and Kat got back to the airport, she would know everything.

She would know about the money, about the “rift” between Em and Gayle, and about the gifts Kat possessed but had yet to unlock.

“Okay. Your mind is made up, ol’ gal, get your ass back into the present moment and enjoy this vacation.” It would not be the last. Em would see to it. She would find a way to make Kat understand and not resent her.

Looking over at her granddaughter, Em said, “Whatever we do tomorrow, let’s make sure we are doing exactly this at the end of the day.”

“Twist my arm,” Kat replied.

Nothing beat these sunsets. They were amazing.

“Besides,” Em continued, “I have some things to discuss with you, and I can’t think of a more lovely place to do it.”

“Why can’t we talk now, Em?” Kat wanted to know.

“It’s business related (not exactly a lie because some of it was business), and I want to remember today just like it is now.”

“Okay,” Kat said, only a little worried.

“Cheers, Dear One,” Em said and raised her frozen Pina Colada toward Kat.

“Cheers, Em,” Kat replied, and clinked her drink glass against her grandmother’s.

“Now,” Em mischievously said, “Let’s check out some of these fellas on this beach.”

…to be continued.

Cent’anni, Bitches!

Monday Musings With Dissy: episode 3

In this day and age…

In this modern era of technology, it completely astounds me the things people still do even though it’s been demonstrated and broadcasted repeatedly that so-and-so (insert preferred risky activity) is just a bad idea. I’m not talking about pissing on an electric fence-type activities that seem like rites of passage for the youngsters. I’m talking about the things we hear about to a seemingly ridiculous degree.

Let’s go over a few of my favorite examples:

Unsolicited Dick pics are never a good idea.

Being a freshly single person, I did some asking around in anticipation of re-entering the realm of dating. Imagine my dismay when I learned that dick pics are still a thing.

Why?

Why has no one paid attention to the fact that one-hundred percent of these pictures get passed around to our friends and laughed at over our lattes?

I remember my first encounter with something like this. I was on yahoo instant messenger. Some random schmuck who was messaging me turned on his web cam, and, like an idiot, I accepted. He was sitting there buck-ass nekkid. I hurriedly typed “Ewwwww… I have company. All my friends can see you.” he disappeared. It stands to reason that this isn’t a desired outcome, so why put yourself out there that way? It’s just fucking gross.

My personal favorite:

Women simply have no excuse for this bullshit. We all know better. You don’t get a facial the day before or of your big day, you don’t get your hair cut or colored the day of or before your big day, and you sure as shit do not do a detox that week. (see what I did there?)

During the wedding, too. What the shit? (see? I did it again)

Especially when there’s a fifteen thousand dollar goddamn dress on the line. Let’s not get into the ridiculousness of shelling out that kind of loot for a dress that will be worn once. I mean, I might do it at some point, so that’s not the part I’m going to judge. Why would you risk such a huge investment by doing a detox? You literally have the entirety of knowledge at your finger tips. You have the capability of finding out what may happen if you do this. No excuse. None.

I just… I … I can’t comprehend it.

For all of the ways we’ve evolved as a society, some folks just can’t seem to break away from that “I’m special” mentality. You know… that thing in your head that says “I can do this. Nothing bad will happen to me…” And it might not be as bad if they didn’t act all shocked and shaken when something bad actually does happen.

There are a lot more serious topics I have a hard time believing people still try to get away with, but I try to keep things humorous, and I don’t want to talk about them because of the probable ensuing shitstorm (I can’t stop).

baaaahahahaha…

Well, I’m going to call this a blog. I have to go and show my neighbor these pictures…

Cent’anni, bitches!

You Know What They Say

Since we’re witches, folks would be correct in assuming that Barb and I have a penchant for paranormal activity or generally spooky activities or places. Now, just because you may be correct in assuming this, let me caution you against doing that type of thing (assuming) too much because:

“You know what they say…”

You know, I have always wanted to know who this elusive “they” are and why “they” are always saying such quotable things.  Maybe, one day, I’ll be fortunate enough to meet them.  Maybe then, they can clarify some information I received as a five-year-old. Also? I want to get in on that quotable shit.

Now, the story I am about to tell you is as clear in my mind as it was the day it happened. I’m not sure of the whys or wherefores, but, from my perspective, the things I experienced, that I am relaying to you today, are 100% true. I’d swear on my life they are.

It was February of 1975. I had just turned 5 a few days before. My mom and I had gone over to my Grandma Marge’s house to take her to the grocery store. When we got back to her house, we got her bags inside, and then she asked if I wanted some pop. 

“Sure,” I said.  What five-year-old kid didn’t want some pop? So, Grandma gave me some Tab. Anyone remember Tab? It was the 1975 diet soda, it tasted like metallic ass hole, and I ALWAYS fell for the “do you want some pop” thing when we were at Grandma’s house. I’m starting to think I may have been a kind of dumb kid.

You’ve got it wrong. How can it taste so bad?

Anyhow, mom, Grandma, and I sat there drinking beverages, and we began to hear a noise in the house that sounded like, I swear, a beating heart.

“That’s weird. I heard this yesterday, too,” Grandma said.

She walked over to her front foyer and hollered up the stairs to see if it was the people moving into her upstairs apartment who were making the noise.

No answer.

My mom and I walked upstairs to see, and nobody was there.

A few minutes later, the noise stopped, and our visit resumed.

About 10 minutes later, the noise started back up.

This time, my mom and I (why was she taking me with her? Did she think her 5-year-old was going to protect her from the boogie man? I’m joking there (mostly). I probably insisted on tagging along. That’s just who I was) went upstairs and searched every room, and then we even checked the attic. We could see no reason for this noise to be happening.

And then it stopped.

About 10 minutes later… you guessed it. We searched that house top to bottom (including the super creepy basement (which is a story for another time)), and then we went outside and walked entirely around the house.

When we got back inside, the noise stopped.

“I can’t see anything that could be causing that noise,” my mom reported to Grandma.

“Well,” Grandma said, (wait for it… wait for it…) “you know what they say…”

My mom said, “No. What’s that?”

“They say,” Grandma continued, “that if you hear a strange noise in your house three times a day for three days in a row, it means the spirit of a loved one is coming to take you away.”

Now… we didn’t stay much longer after that, but two things I do know:

  1. That noise did not happen again for the rest of our visit.
  2. Grandma was found dead in her home the next day.

I could type pages of stories about this house, but it’s time for me to let Barb tell you a story:

It’s Casper, bitches!

I love Dissy’s description of Tab. Never had Tab; when I had pop it was Diet Rite, which was equally terrible. There’s a reason that shit isn’t around anymore.

The bad old days of sody pop.

There’s a place in southern Ohio we go to as often as we’re able. It’s a beautiful area near where Jay went to college, with lots of hiking trails and other outdoor activities. It’s also one of the most haunted areas in the United States.

One of the things we do when we’re down there is visit the old cemetery. I’m talking elaborate wrought iron fence around it old.

We’ve established a relationship with the spirits there, and usually when we stop at the gate and ask to come in, they’re glad to see us.

On one visit a few years back though, something was wrong. The spirits were upset and confused, it was obvious someone had gone in and done something shitty. We knew there would be no visit that night, but for some reason we didn’t leave right away.

I was standing between Jay and a friend of ours who lives down that way, directly in front of the gate, when a car pulled up. A group of giggly teenagers got out, and cheerfully told us they were going in to play Ghosts in the Graveyard.

This is where things get interesting.

In my mind, I looked over at them, said, “Nah, not a good idea tonight”, and they jumped back in their car and took off like they’d been shot out of a rocket.

So I look back at the guys in confusion, wondering what the fuck was wrong with the youngsters.

Which is when the guys told me what actually happened.

Both guys said I turned just my head towards the kids, keeping my body rigidly facing the gate. When I was staring directly at them, totally expressionless, I said (in a voice neither of them had ever heard before)

“Oh no you aren’t. Not tonight.”

So yeah, the panicked fleeing made more sense after that. Nothing like that had ever happened to me before, and hasn’t happened again since.

My best guess is that since I had opened myself up to communicate with the spirits, someone decided to borrow me for a minute, just to make sure the message got heard.

It doesn’t bother me, in fact it’s kind of cool that they trusted me enough to speak through me, and there were no weird after effects.

And hey, maybe there’s a bunch of kids down there who make up stories about the freaky ghost chick who guards the cemetery gates. Maybe I’m even an urban legend down there.

That would be pretty awesome.

Until next time,

Cent’anni bitches!