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!

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!

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!