WTF Friday: vol. 14

Are you gonna eat that?

You know, I like to think I’m pretty open-minded when it comes to most things, including food. I’ve heard about some bonkers shit, and for the most part I’d be willing to try it. However, I almost threw up when I read this article:

SCIENTISTS DEVELOP BUG BUTTER

Excuse me, they did what now?

Mind you, this is coming from someone who ate a chocolate covered bug once, just because the opportunity presented itself. I can neither confirm nor deny that alcohol was involved. I can, however, confirm that Jay refused to kiss me until I’d brushed my teeth. Twice.

And truthfully? It wasn’t that bad. Not sure if I’d do it again, but it was not as gross as I had anticipated.

I just can’t wrap my head around taking fly larvae, turning it into a paste, and using it to bake cookies. Don’t ask me why it’s different, it just is.

What about you Dissy, are bug biscuits in your future?

Yeah… prior to making any kind of decision, I needed to consult with my dear friend, Google. Here is what I found:

Researchers trying to find a dairy substitute say they extracted grease from insects. They needed just under an ounce of insects to make enough grease, to make the cake. The team says it’s better for the environment than dairy production, which is where most butter comes from. In a quick taste test, they found they could use half butter and half bugs and you can’t really taste the difference.

I tried super hard to take a picture of myself showing my “ewww…” face, but the lighting in my kitchen (we’ve been mandated to work from home. Thank you, coronavirus) makes me look like I’m about 800 trillion years old, and I’m not willing to look like that on the camera just yet.

Anyhow?

ewww…

I was a little relieved to find that it wasn’t a matter of throwing some grubs and roaches in your mortar and pestle, grinding them up, and throwing it in the cookie batter. Somehow, they harvested the “grease” off these bugs (then again… how do you do that?). Still… No. Just… No.

Which one of those scientist idiots thinks this is cake?

This is yet another topic that generates more questions than answers, though, I guess in this day and age, we only really need to be concerned with one:

Is it gluten free?

Furthermore, a phrase like “you really can’t taste the difference,” tells me that you can, in fact, taste a HUGE difference. It’s like saying there’s no difference between Dr. Pepper and Mr. Pibb. (don’t fight me on this, you will lose) or between pizza crust and that shit-paste people make out of cauliflower. There’s ALWAYS a discernable difference in taste. Stop lying to us, science people. Now.

So, there you have it. What will we come up with next week?

Only one way to find out!

Cent’anni, Bitches!

Monday Musings With Dissy: episode 12

Well, we’ve been doing a lot of slacking here lately. Some of it is due to the lack of inspiration. We really don’t get out enough to generate blog fodder. That needs to freaking change with a quickness. Oh. Wait. It can’t just yet.

Some of it, too, is due to sickness. Neither of us have the CV yet, but there is also a ridiculous flu going around and tis the season for allergies.

So… how ’bout that there Coronavirus? Hopefully, you’re all healthy and safe. I’m going to assume you all know the precautions to take, and, if not, well, then quarantine yourself for the safety of the masses because they are more important than you. Why? Because you don’t pay attention. Stop being a baby.

Last night, we got the official word from my employer that we are to start working from home until further notice. That is one thing you absoutely will not hear me complaining about. I’ve always suspected I would be a more productive human being and worker if I was able to work from home. We are about to put that to a test.

Today, so far, I have cleaned my closet room, vacuumed that floor and the floor in my bedroom, I swept and mopped the kitchen floor, tidied up in the kitchen as much as possible until we can get my drain problems handled and I can wash the dishes, I set up my home office, which is in a small alcove off my kitchen (I love this little area here), I walked my doggie, and now I’m ready to spend the next 8 hours telling folks to restart their shit.

Daisy-Lou sniffing everything on the west side of Cleveland.
I love my little work area.

I’m not sure what’s going on in other states, but we’ve also had our governor officially announce that bars and dine-in services at restaurants are shut down until further notice. The part of me that wants to protect others from contracting CV is glad this is happening, and there is another part of me that is concerned with liberties being trodden upon. I posted a rant on facebook about people whining about this and called people bitching about the closures selfish. By and large, I stand by that statement, yet, a small part of me can see their point.

BUT…

Sure, it’s anyone’s choice to go out into the world and interact at his or her whim. It’s my choice to stay home or go out unnecessarily if I want. The problem comes in when we begin to impact other people who are concerned and are following the precautions. And this isn’t as simple as me maybe telling my son to not come over and visit because I know he was out partying the other night.

We all have to continue doing certain things like working and shopping for food. Are you okay with carrying that shit around and infecting others?

Well? Are you?

I always say the world is over-populated, and some of us do simply have to go. That being said, I’m not personally willing to be responsible for that, and I’m not sure I’m okay with my immediate circle being okay with being responsible for the transmission of disease that has and can kill.

The conspiracy theorist in me is literally screaming about martial law, but my logic says something else entirely. I don’t know what to think, and, while I’m not afraid, I am seeing the need for caution. Why don’t you?

Until next time…

Cent’anni, Bitches!

What, Me Worry?

Yesterday, I got two very unsettling pieces of information.

First, there was the robocall from the superintendent of Girl Child and Best Friend’s school district. Keep in mind, these schools do not close. Ever. We had a winter storm that dumped almost a foot of snow and the temperature dropped down to single digits. School was in session like normal, every day.

Girl Child and I actually joked yesterday morning that the superintendent would keep the schools open even in the midst of a zombie apocalypse, so take a guess how I felt when that call came, telling me the schools will be closed tomorrow in order to deep clean all the buildings and get a plan in place for dealing with COVID-19.

Then came the memo at work.

Now, I genuinely like my job. For the most part everyone I work with/for is great. Having said that, we have one top level executive who isn’t exactly known for being warm and fuzzy. This person is more the “tough love” type, except without the “love”.

But hey, I’m not the one responsible for running an entire company, so what do I know, right?

The beginning of the memo was advising all employees that if anyone tests positive, the company is going to pay them in full for the two weeks of recovery and quarantine, and then there was the form we all had to fill out. What kind of internet access do you have at home? Do you have a PC? Turns out, my little company is buying equipment for the very real possibility that we may have to go totally remote for an undetermined period of time.

I like to think I’ve been appropriately cautious up until now. I don’t need to be told to clean my house, wash my hands, and don’t cough on people, because I’m not a toddler. So, little more hand sanitizer, avoid anyone who looks sick, and I should be golden, right? Seeing that person’s name on a memo, spelling out how the company is making plans out of concern for our health and safety, was, however, a shock to the system.

I’ll admit, my first thought was, “Holy shit we’re all gonna die!” Which isn’t exactly rational, but well in keeping with who I am as a person, in case you haven’t noticed. My second thought was, “Calm the fuck down you goddamn lunatic.” Also very me. Because reasons.

For now, I’m going to keep living my life.

The kids will go to school, Jay and I will go to work, grocery shopping Saturday morning and yoga with Dissy at the ass crack of dawn Sunday. I don’t know what’s coming, no one really does.

Stop stockpiling pallets of toilet paper like you plan on shitting twice your body weight twice a day.

No you can’t make your own hand sanitizer from most booze.

And for the love of the gods…

Wash your fucking hands.

Cent’anni, Bitches!

Monday Musings With Dissy: episode 11

There’s definitely something to be said about learning the ways in which we are our own worst enemies. It’s a brand of wisdom we all need in our lives.

There’s also something very empowering about making the decision to end the cycle of bullshit that has seemed to follow you around like some creeper who likes to peep in your windows while you sleep. Except, you realize, you’re the one who invited the shit. And once you have that epiphany, there’s the ultimate… “Hey, I can fix this shit.”

In my recent mental health journey, I’ve mentioned having come to the realization that I tend to figuratively paint myself into corners then get angry because I feel stuck or trapped. Time to get out of that. Time to be pro-active.

I have some things in the works that I don’t want to mention just yet. I want the energy toward it to remain as pure as possible for now, but let me publicly declare, changes are on the horizon.

In my quest to wean myself off of antidepressants, I am down to 1/2 of a 25mg effexor tablet per day. There are still some withdrawl symptoms, but I’d classify them as mild. I’m starting to lose the apathy and the brain fog and the feeling of perpetual hopelessness (hey, isn’t that what happens when you’re depressed? Why am I getting that shit ON an antidepressant?)

Anyhow, I may need them again down the road, and, if I do, I will definitely consult my doctor. For now, I’m excited about once again experiencing the full spectrum of human emotion.

Ain’t it a beautiful thing?

See ya!!

Cent’anni, Bitches!

About Those X’ers…

Being a staunch card-carrying member of Generation X, I have to say I have greatly enjoyed the recent blogs and articles that have recently come out about us. We mock the feud between the Boomers and Millennials, we have our Jan Brady middle child episodes (which one of them is Marcia?), and we kick back to watch the shit-show with a cold one, all the while refusing to acknowledge the fact that we are getting old.

We never really had to stand for or against anything (unless it was Tipper Gore and her PMRC bullshit). We are the first generation who actually LIVED with the outcome of the Civil Rights movement. Most of us have no clue what a segregated school is, and that is a wonderful thing. No major wars, no major global conflicts, no major national conflicts, and the Cold War was petering out. In fact, we did witness the end of that nonsense.

“Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall!” –Ronald Reagan

So many fantastic innovations came our way. Truly, we are the generation of life not only being made easier, but we are also the generation of life being made recreational.

With all of these reasons to be relatively unaffected, why is Generation X often labeled as being an “angry” generation? I even remember back to my teen years… we did seem fairly angsty. It also seemed to me that there were not a shit ton of reasons that we were so angsty. Then I started wondering… were we really?

We were shown angst. We were taught angst. By whom? The people putting out the movies, pop culture, and books. Boomers. Yeah. Most of them living through young adulthood in the 1960s and we know those folks were some enraged muthafuckas. They certainly made a lot of their rage, and those who paved the way for us X-ers certainly made a big business out of telling us we, too, should be angry.

Problem is… we don’t like being told what to do.

I don’t know any true X-ers who are angry, angsty, or dissatisfied with the lives they led as youngsters or even the lives they lead now. Why is this label continually slapped on us, though?

What are your thoughts, Barb?

I’ve never thought of myself as angsty to be honest. Cynical? Yeah, I’ll agree with cynical.
Why would I be, considering we had it relatively good? Personally, it’s been about all the broken promises from boomers. We were the generation raised on a steady diet of, “You can have everything we have if you just work for it. Education, house, family, vacations, the whole ball of wax”. And then they burned the entire structure to the ground.

Boomers ended all the regulations that kept college and housing reasonably affordable, gutted fair wages and made sure they were the last ones who had those opportunities, while raising us to believe nothing had changed and our failures were our own fault.

Instead of getting mad about it though, a lot of us just sort of checked out. We muddle along, never really expecting anything to get better. In the meantime, boomers and millennials fight about who’s the worst, and forget we exist.

But hey, whatever (and aren’t we the generation responsible for teaching the young’uns exactly how that word is to be said? beautiful!)

I, Dissy, think a lot of these feelings didn’t apply to me because I didn’t know anyone older than me that I wanted to be like. That’s a little sad, I think.

Anyhow, in the spirit of the ’80s, I say to you,

Whatever, Bitches!

WTF Friday: Vol. 13

This was an interesting week to be a Northern Italian, specifically in the small village of Settecani.

People there turned on their faucets, and literally got red wine coming out. Which would be kind of awesome, right up until you need to take a shower or something, and you smell like a college town back alley.

According to the article I found, the local winery had a silo start leaking, which got into the water supply, which is why all the residents got a boozy surprise the other day.

Raise your hand if you knew there were giant wine silos, because I didn’t and I feel like I should have.

I guess we both know now.

Now that I think about it, it seems pretty obvious.

What do you think Dissy?

Wait… what??

I’d love to know how this seems obvious? I thought they kept this shit in barrels.

Know what’s even more fucked up? I went searching for the article so I could get details, and, guess what? This isn’t the first time this has happened! I guess in other incidents, wine has spilled onto the ground.

Is there an Italian equivalent to the Valdez? Wait… wasn’t that guy drunk, too?

I suppose I’d rather live in Italy, where wine spills are more of a concern than this oil pipeline bullshit we deal with over here.

I’m not really a wine fan, though, and watered down Lambrusco sounds even less appealing than drinking just about anything. Note that I said “just about”. Get me some vodka coming out of my tap, then we’re in business.

I need to know who is responsible for this plumbing fiasco. They said there were no concerns for cleanliness or safety, as the wine in question was already ready for bottling. So what kind of system is this that their wine can just get misrouted right quick?

More than anything, though, (since this was in Italy) I want to know if they clinked glasses and said…

wait for it…

Cent’anni, Bitches!

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
ALREADY!


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.

Barb?

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

sketchy?

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!