Tired of Being Tired

Tomorrow is my mother’s second cataract surgery. It’s scheduled for 7am, which means I need to have her there by 6:30, so I’m getting up at 5am tomorrow. I am not excited about this.

I’ve always wanted to be one of those people who wake up bright and early every morning, rested and ready to take on the day; instead, I drag myself out of bed like a swamp demon, half asleep with snarled hair and a puffy face.

As controversial as this is, I like sleep. Big fan. Of course, as we all know, our society pushes the narrative that getting proper sleep means you’re lazy. Everyone is in a constant competition over how few hours they get by on every night, and how exhausted and sleep deprived they are.

In my opinion, “tired” has become a personality (or substitute for not having one, as it were).

Obviously, there are times when sleep deprivation is unavoidable, the first example coming to mind being when you have a baby. Those little shits sleep in like, 20-minute stretches sometimes, which is awesome.

Really. No sarcasm here, haha!

The majority of the time though, we’re doing this to ourselves.

If I had a dollar for every time I’ve had insults hurled at me by people claiming to love me, I’d be a wealthy woman.

Go to bed by 10pm? Lazy.
Not up at 4am and doing twelve things before leaving for work? Lazy.

For a long time, I internalized that toxic shit, and repeatedly pushed myself to the point of
collapse in a desperate, futile attempt to be good enough.

Fuck that. Sincerely, fuck that.

One of my favorite stories about Jay is from a couple days after our wedding. We had a very small, low-key ceremony, followed by a cookout in my in-laws’ back yard. Even so, weddings are stressful and time consuming, and our house got pretty chaotic in the last few days before.

So there I was, with the ink barely dry on our marriage certificate, standing in our kitchen scream-crying over a sink full of dishes. Jay cut me off mid-rant and ordered me to go take a nap.

After blinking at him blankly for a second or two, I started yelling even more, demanding to know what the FUCK he thought he was pulling here, telling me what I was and was not going to do. He yelled right back that this wasn’t even about dishes, it was about how I was worn out, stressed out, and had been doing way too much so TAKE A DAMN NAP

Long story short, I went and laid down for a couple hours, Jay and the kids cleaned the house, and things seemed a lot better after that.

I’d like to say that was the last time he had to tell me to get some sleep, but I would be lying.

Undoing 30 years of bullshit is a long process, and I didn’t suddenly stop being fucked up because I had someone in my life who actually supported me. I’m trying though, and I’m doing better. Someday, I might even turn into one of those perky fuckers and get on my own nerves.

Dude… if you become that broad, I will straight up take away your “asshole” card, necklace, and title. XOXO – Dissy.

Until Next Time,

Cent’anni Bitches!

Monday Musings With Dissy: episode 10

Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional.
-Haruki Murakami or the Buddha
(depending on which Google entry you’d like to believe)

This morning, I was excited to look at the weather app on my phone and see the temperature outside. I wanted to take Daisy-Lou to the park and go for a walk, but by the time we got downstairs and she went out for her first tinkle break, it was already raining.

I should have known. I felt it in my hands, wrists, and shoulder. I used to laugh when old people said that, but now I have to suck it up and accept that this is reality now.

Once I get up and moving, it eases up some. I have exercises I can do to limber up. Tylenol still helps. Yoga is helping with the stiffness in my shoulder, and, hey, maybe one day I’ll go have some hot dude give me a massage. If worse comes to worse, there’s always vodka. That’s a joke, of course. I have no intention of becoming a lush.

I’ve been in a bit of a state, here lately, as I seriously ponder what I want to do with my life. I seem to have this habit of figuratively painting myself into corners, and, while I’m glad that I’m beginning to recognize this habit, it’s also making me angry to realize it. Why would I do this? All it ever accomplishes is making me feel stuck and helpless. When that feeling sets in, it makes me want to run off to the farthest reaches of the universe and forget everything. Maybe if I worked on not “painting myself in,” less complicated changes would suffice.

Don’t take that paragraph the wrong way. The fact that I’m learning and discovering these things about myself is positive and important.

I’m not sure, entirely, about all this pain, be it literal or figurative. What I do choose, however, is to not suffer. Smile, face it, do it, make it better, or fucking change it. Bam.

Have a great week!

Cent’anni, Bitches!

Out and About With Your Favorite Assholes

Barb and I don’t exclusively hang out in my kitchen, ya know. I know this is going to be difficult for some of you to believe, but, sometimes, on occasion, we actually go out and do stuff.

Usually, this is accompanied by a warning from Barb’s husband, Jay, that we should behave ourselves because our bail money bank account isn’t up to snuff yet, and, when I say “isn’t up to snuff,” what I really mean is that it’s non-existent.

So, we do have to make an attempt to be just a smidge careful. Usually, it’s pretty half-assed, our attempts, but we haven’t blown anything or anyone up yet, and we also haven’t ended up on the sheriff’s roadside litter crew.  Again, yet.

What’s that? You want to know what we’ve been up to? Of course we will be glad to fill you in.

Last Tuesday, we went to a Yin Yoga class at a local yoga school. We decided we’ve been entirely too wound up here lately, and we needed to unwind.

Basically, Yin Yoga is all about reaching a deeper level of relaxation, a deeper meditative state, and releasing on a much higher level.

In addition to us both being wrapped a little tight here lately, neither of us have done yoga in a while, so I figured this was a good place for us to start.

I loved it, and I didn’t even pass any gas.

What did you think, Barb?

Tuesday night’s class was the first time I’ve done yoga in probably a decade. As much as I love doing it, my house has no space for yoga, and, besides, I don’t think Dad wants my ass in his face.

So Tuesday was a great restart, the class was challenging without being hard, and I felt a lot better afterwards.

documentation. In case we need an alibi.

Last night, we went to eat tacos with our good friend Sammy. We learned some interesting things from Sammy, as, the night before, he had been chatting it up with a nurse, and he was more than happy to pass his newly acquired knowledge on to us. Let’s just say I will never look at Air Jordans the same way again. E-V-E-R.

We may or may not have gotten a smidge obnoxious, though. They started to seat this one couple behind us, and they ended up moving to another table. I’m not sure why, but I want it to be our fault, and so it is.

The tacos were wonderful, but we called it an early evening, as Sammy had to go do young single-guy things, and Barb said she was going to go to sleep early because I bullied her into signing up for a Vinyasa Flow yoga class at 8:30 AM Sunday morning.


Tacos last night was hilarious. Jay stayed home because he worked overtime Saturday, so Dissy and I were basically unsupervised, as Sammy is far too kindhearted to put any real check on our behavior.

I’m still half convinced the Air Jordan conversation was at least partly due to our corrupting influence. And I’m also half convinced the margaritas were to blame for us deciding to sign up for today’s class, at the ass crack of dawn on a Sunday morning.

The corruptors and their unsuspecting victim.

This morning, we did the Vinyasa Flow Yoga Class. At 8:30 AM. On Sunday.

I can’t even believe how full that class was. That right there is some dedication. I mean, we only registered because we both had frozen alcoholic concoctions that were as big as our heads.

Well, I am pretty sure that neither of us got that “seamlessly” thing down. Not today, anyhow.

We decided that the Saturday beginner class is going to be more our speed for a while. That’s a bit of a letdown, for me, though, as I never have a problem keeping up with Rodney Yee on Prime Video. Oh well, it’s a new method, so there will be a learning curve.

Barb, how did you like yoga?

It was a good experience, even if I was lost several times and we spent a third of the class sitting on our asses because we just couldn’t anymore (hey, wait… we did assume proper yoga poses for our downtimes…). The description said “all levels”, but there’s no way I’m ready for a class where people are doing fucking headstands and shit (right? Nobody told me there’d be fucking headstands).

“why aren’t these assholes doing the headstands?”

So, looks like for now it’s Tuesday night Yin and Saturday morning Beginners. Which is way more than we were doing before, so yay us.

Besides, once the weather stops being miserable, we can start hiking and training for 5K season, and we’ll definitely have stories to tell about that!

So that’s what we’ve been up to. Not in prison, no one dead or injured, and still managing a good time.

You know, until we get that bail fund firmly established.

Cent’anni, Bitches!

WTF Friday: vol 12

In my wanderings among the interwebz today, this jumped out at me:

Dad ‘fuming’ at baby’s toy that looks like a ‘big pink penis’

Now, I’m very familiar with toy designs that can turn out a bit…. suggestive

Is that a straw, or are you just happy to see me?

So of course, I clicked on the story immediately, you know, for science. Apparently, this baby was given a set of teething toys as a gift, and Dad freaked the fuck out and took one of them away from her, because he said it looked like she had a wang in her mouth. Fortunately, the story included a picture of the offending toy, unfortunately it looks like this


Are you kidding me right now dude? The problem here isn’t the toy. It’s a perfectly normal toy. The problem is you. To get so worked up that you snatched a toy away from your infant daughter, and ranted to a news site about it, because you have a dirty mind, is batshit fucking crazy.

Is he going to be one of those fathers who won’t allow his daughter to eat things like ice cream cones and bananas when she reaches toddlerhood, because it’s too phallic? Calm down dude, you have a really long way to go, and plenty of actual things to worry about.

What do you think Dissy?

Well, I think we would have made this connection ourselves if we had seen this toy without the related article attached. You know very well that, on “drunk in Dissy’s kitchen” night, we could have come across this on some random website and we would have laughed our asses off. Don’t deny it. You KNOW we would. Especially the upside down picture.

It does look kind of like a dong. Not enough to make me take it away from my kid, but definitely enough to make me giggle for a few minutes.

I’m not even sure I’d report this to the news either because then they may take it off the market, and then I couldn’t buy it for shower gifts.

But… wait… this is a teething toy?? Why the fuck are we giving babies cloth to chomp on? Does formula not have enough fiber? I mean, last I checked, babies aren’t lacking in the poop department… Furthermore… How gross is it to find a soggy toy lying around? Just… ewww…

Anyhow, I think dad isn’t having the proper amount of fun with this. He kind of has a stick up his ass, and he’s reminding me of my ex, who, back in the ’90s refused to let me play Elton John and George Michael’s remake of “Don’t Let the Sun Go Down on Me” in front of Tony.

Why? I’m so glad you asked.

Because he was (and probably still is) an idiot who thought they were saying “Don’t Let Your Son Go Down On Me,” and, in his overblown idiotic opinion, this was pedophilia.

I mean, Barb, we are GenX’ers. If there is perversion (the harmless kind (and, yes, there is such a thing)) or innuendo to be found, we, the generation who never quite grew up, are going to find it. It’s just a matter of what we do with the generally filthy minds we possess. It’s one thing for us adults to notice these things and giggle about them amongst each other. It’s quite another for us to project those upon our children. I feel like this is what makes dad a little over the edge here.

I feel like he can stick the dong toy up his ass. Not because he noticed, but because of how he acted about it. Handing your child an actual vibrator to chew on is inappropriate (at the bare minimun). Noticing that your child’s toy vaguely resembles something and that something causing fits of giggling between yourself and your ADULT friends? That’s something else entirely. Especially since I’m certain the last intention of the toy makers was to send this out into the market. pfft… dude… get a clue.

Cent’anni, Bitches!

I’m Fine. Why Do You Ask?

I’m currently sitting at work, waiting for a call from my mechanic, to tell me what’s wrong with my car and how much repairs are going to cost. Again.

I don’t think I trust this mechanic. His hands are too clean.

I’m not exactly surprised – the car is 17 years old, and shit happens when your car is practically old enough to vote. This, of course, doesn’t make it any more pleasant to shell out a ton of money on what-the-fuck-ever is jacked up THIS time.

So why not get another car? I hear you asking.

Well, that brings us to last night, and me sobbing, uncontrollably, to Jay.

See, I’m in my mid-40s, and I have never, even once in my life, decided on a car I’d like to have and then went and bought it. Every vehicle I have ever owned or driven, including the current one, has been the result of taking what I could get at the time.

A while back, though, I made up my mind that I was going to set up a plan, and I was
getting what I really wanted next time.

Since the age of 16, I have really, really wanted a Jeep. Originally, my teenage heart was set on a Wrangler, but adult me has decided on a Patriot.

No, Sam. Just… no.

With all the redesigns Jeeps have had, most of the lineup looks like every other SUV on the road these days, and the Wrangler and Patriot are pretty much the only ones left that still look like Jeeps, but the Patriot is about half the price.

And I do NOT want a $500 a month car payment.

Just writing that makes me shudder.

Anyway, plan is in place, and things are trucking along in the right direction. Until a couple days ago, when I’ve suddenly got a rough idle out of nowhere, in the aforementioned 17-year-old Saturn, and we come to the conclusion last night that yeah, we have to get this checked out.

And since my brain hates me, it set up a lovely anxiety spiral, where in a
matter of minutes I had myself convinced the repair was going to be way more than we can afford, which means getting rid of the car and finding something else before we’re ready, which means getting what I actually want for the first time in my life is out the window, which lead to the aforementioned hysterical crying, while I told Jay I am never going to have anything and I was stupid and selfish for ever thinking otherwise.

So that was dramatic. (ummmm… yeah? xoxo Dissy)

Thank the Goddess I have Jay, and he has figured out how to talk me through moments like these.

Don’t get me wrong… my mechanic is a great guy. He’s fair, honest, and has never charged me more than what was reasonable for whatever needed to be done. My car just likes to break in the most expensive ways it can think of.

So here I sit, doing the same things I do every workday and waiting for the phone
to ring.



STOP it. We just did all that yoga. Find your peace, sista.


Until Next Time…

P.S. Just so you all know, Barb’s car repairs were reasonable, and she is able to keep on track to her goals. She is not going to die of a heart attack, but she may give herself an ulcer, and she needs to chill. ❤

Cent’anni Bitches!

Witchy Wednesday: Take 12

DISCLAIMER: This blog post is going to wade into some touchy subjects, specifically politics and religious based discrimination. If you don’t want to read about that kind of thing, we totally get it. (not me (Dissy) I don’t get it at all. I read plenty from all sides. You can put up with this blog for the 10 minutes it will take you to read it.)

As most of us are already aware, evangelical christians have been flooding the court system for a number of years doing everything they can think of to dismantle civil rights protections for, well, anyone who isn’t them.

Which is why this headline caught my interest:

The fight over whether religion is a license to discriminate is back before the Supreme Court

Now I’m fully aware of clickbait, so I did what any reasonable person would do, and started researching.

What I found out scares the shit out of me.

To cut things down to the barest bones, the city of Philadelphia does not grant taxpayer money to any organization that doesn’t follow antidiscrimination laws. Period. So, an evangelical adoption agency is suing them, because they want to flout the law and
still get paid.

And the Supreme Court just agreed to hear the case.

There are two main reasons this makes me worry.

First, the large Evangelical groups that are funding these lawsuits have openly bragged that attacking the LGBT community is only the tip of the iceberg. Their ultimate goal is to have it codified into law that evangelicals (and ONLY evangelicals) hold a position in this country of absolute power, where they can literally do anything they want.

The second reason is because with what has happened to the Supreme Court in the last few years, they may get away with it.

Ever since the grossly unqualified “Justice” Kegstand was installed, he has made no secret about how excited he is to get his grubby hands in there and start ripping away basic human rights from women, people of color, the LGBT community, non-christians, and pretty much everyone who isn’t a white, male evangelical.

And we no longer have enough members of the court willing to serve as a firewall against
the most extreme among us.

I’m horrified that my LGBT brothers and sisters continue to have their very existence debated, and, selfishly, I’m also concerned about the risks to my distinctly not christian family. Does my marriage get erased?

Do I lose my kid?

Where does it end?

Okay Dissy, your turn to let me know why I’m being a fucking lunatic again…

Okay, Barb, to start, in OUR blog, words like “christian” and “evangelical” do not get proper noun status. It simply isn’t done here.

This whole thing reminds me of an episode of that show on Hulu where the women wear the bonnets. What the hell is it called?

I really hope that there are enough people in positions of power, on that side of things, who see that freedom of religion means all religions, and not just that religion. I mean, I do know some conservatives who see this for the hogwash it would be. In fact, I know quite a few. Hopefully, when push comes to shove, they rise up as well.

We shall see…

Until then:

Cent’anni Witches!

Monday Musings With Dissy: episode 9

As you all know, I turned the big 5-0 a couple of weeks ago. So far, it’s been a pretty good experience for me. I’ve heard a lot of people say the same thing, women in particular, that turning 50 is liberating.

My only problem with it is that I can’t remember shit anymore.

I guess I really can’t blame the age thing for that, though, because it’s been going on for a while now. No matter how many times I read that this is perfectly normal for “women my age,” it bugs the ever-loving shit out of me.

My point in griping about this is that I come up with about 80 billion (yes, BILLION) brilliant ideas for improving humanity on a daily basis. How many do I ever remember? zero.

This dude looks more like a donut.

What I do see on my facetyspace feed today, (that I feel has about a zero percent chance of improving humanity (that’s just IMN-S-HO, though.) is that there’s a thing out there called “rage yoga.” Let’s learn a little about “rage yoga” before we judge it, shall we?

“Tired of feeling “really out of place” in traditional yoga classes?” No. No I’m not. Why? Because I haven’t. I’m not sure there ever has been a “stick up their ass” yoga school like you describe in your ad. At least not in Northeast Ohio, anyhow, and I’ve taken classes in a Hindu temple, what I’d term “soccer mom yoga studios”, my own living room floor, community classes held in parks, and tiny schools set up on the wrong side of the tracks. They ALL share a common theme of being welcoming, helpful, and non-judgmental.

Yoga, for me, is very much about the peace and quiet, as it is for everyone else who is there. No one there cares what you look like in your yoga pants and tank top. No one cares that you need modifications. No one cares. If you feel judged, maybe it is you judging yourself.

The “alcohol-filled” description in the title of the article I read is also concerning. Not gonna lie… I’ve done yoga before after having drank a few beers. I also ended up with Wonder Woman complex, tried to go WAY too far, and hurt myself as a result. Booze and any kind of exercise (and, yes, yoga is a physical activity and is a form of exercise) at the same time is not a combination I would recommend.

Now, I’m always down for profanity (another thing mentioned). I’m pretty sure that I’ve whispered “shit” a time or two during my practice. And guess what? NO ONE CARED!!!

Judge Judy even thinks it’s bullshit.

But seriously? This is a thing? I mean, any kind of exercise can break frustration, anger, and aggression. This seems, to me, like something someone made up because they want to “mean girl” something they thought they experienced one time at a soccer mom school.

Get over yourself.

Now… I have to go cook up some plans for the rest of this week’s blogs.

I’ll come up with some great shit, and I’m sure Barb will too. Then, we will both forget them. But she will write hers down, so she’ll be good to go. Not me, though.

Cent’anni, Bitches!