I'ma get controversial on yo' ass

Driving down Liberty Avenue through Bloomfield earlier this week, I was waiting at a red light. When I glanced to my right, I saw (do not click unless you have a strong stomach) this. It was on a sign carried by an anti-abortion protester. Of course, it wasn't that exact picture of a dead baby, but you get my drift. I see things like this all the time, because on my way to work every single day, I drive past a clinic in East Liberty.
Although I have never been pregnant, I am staunchly anti-abortion. I do not believe in it. To me, it's a horrible thing. It goes against all my moral principles and everything I was taught growing up in church. It is not an action I would choose for myself. Now, before all you pro-choicers start emailing me all "Who the hell do you think you are," please note that just because I am pro-life does not mean I expect you to be so. It doesn't mean I'm your enemy or that I think you're going to hell if you believe in abortion or even if you've had one yourself. I am certainly not going to try and change your mind.
In fact, as far as abortion protesters go, I'd rather not be associated with them in any way. At 8 o'clock on a Thursday morning, I, even being pro-life, don't want to have dead babies shoved in my face. Hell, I don't want dead babies shoved in my face at any time of the day! Do you really think you're changing any one's mind? Be honest now. Does any woman, on her way to have a abortion, see those signs and think, "Oh, my God, I can't do this?" I'm sure that any woman arriving at the decision to terminate her pregnancy did not get there lightly. If I were pro-choice, I would retaliate for this nonsense by printing up huge-mongous pictures of women, dead from back alley and coat hanger abortions, and plastering them on signs to protest in front of churches and high schools.
I find it completely offensive. Moms drive their kids to school down Liberty Avenue. School buses full of children use Liberty Avenue. Do you think that I want to have to explain that graphic, disgusting photograph of a dead baby to my five-year-old? Shouldn't I get to broach that topic on my own time and when or if I so choose? If your sign is any indication, you're supposed to be all about protecting the innocent and their rights. What right do you have to expose them to that kind of horror? This is a free country and you have every right to believe what you want to believe, but so do I. And if you ask me, I believe you should stick your signs up your self-righteous asses.

Braydon Coburn the Draq Queen?

I know I've been neglecting you, my one reader, lately, but I've been very busy. Unfortunately, as I have never met you, you don't rank high on my priority list. I've been working on the fixer-upper and work is a madhouse so I haven't had time to enjoy Phineus Q. Peabody, aka my lap top. Yes, I named my lap top. I did not use Pittgirl's random name generator. The BFF came up with that one.


I was cruising around the internet and discovered, via MSN.com, that Kim Kardashian is one of the top celebrities. This is her biography. Did you catch the name of her production company? If you didn't bother to click, it's "Kimsaprincess Productions." I guess that's shorter than "Kimsasiliconefilledwhorewholikesgoldenshowers Productions".

So, let's go Pens!!! How about this picture of Braydon Coburn?
If you were having your picture taken for your hockey team's media guide, would you wear lipstick? And if so, would you pick a color that hideous?

Apparently, there's a big debate about whether more celebrities should go nude. I absolutely think they should. But I'm sick of looking at Britney's, Lindsay's and Paris' naughty bits. Guess who I want to see naked. Go on, guess.


Speaking of Britney, she evidently went on a Costa Rican holiday with Mel Gibson. I hope she didn't pack any Jews. I hope what she did pack was a designated driver. I think we can go ahead and assume that they are not attending the MENSA convention.

That thong, th-thong, thong, thong

Because my spouse and I do not have cable, we headed to Primanti's last night to enjoy some fine dining and watch the Pens game. Side note: the Pens kick ass. We were placing our food order with our waitress and Mr. Pitsberger requested the following: "I'll have the Colossal Fish sandwich with onions instead of cole slaw." The waitress, horrified, replied in a thick Pghese accent, "You don't want no slaw?"


And another email from BFF of Mrs. Pitsberger: (I'm lazy today, leave me alone)
"So, as I told you on the phone, I went to Wal-mart today to get my tire fixed. No big deal. I went in and told them my problem and walked around the store for 45 minutes. They called my name and I went back to pick up my car. I paid and went out and got into my car. All pretty standard stuff. Well you remember when I told you last year that when I went to Wal-mart to get my car fixed and in the last minute frantic cleaning of my car in the parking lot(aka jamming stuff under the front seat so the grease monkies don't think I'm living out of my car); I found a thong and stuck it in my purse and it fell out in the middle of the store. Well, this time I decided to clean out my car before I actually made it to the store. Guess what I found in the console (aka my banking recordkeeping spot). That same thong. I'd never taken it out. I immediately determined that that thong was going to make it into the house. So as not to forget it I displayed it prominently wrapped around the gearshift by a strap and laying spread out onto the passenger seat. Now guess where it was when I got back into my car after getting my tire changed. Yep, you guessed right. Prominently displayed wrapped around my gearshift and spread ever so nicely on my passenger seat. I'm going to burn that thong."

I should tell you about my BFF. She's the awesomest. And yes, she does stupid shit like this all the time. And so do I. That's why we're hetero-soulmates.

I finally got a lap top. I'm a blogger, right, and every blogger should have a lap top. I even got the cutest ever cherry print bag for it. Not that I will ever have a reason to leave the house with my lap top, but that bag is cute as hell. Of course, I have wireless internet access. I LOVE my lap top. If it had a dick, I would fuck it. That's how much I love my lap top. I need a name for him. Finally! An excuse to use Pittgirl's random name generator!

And is this not the best thing ever?

Quote of the Day

Mr. Pitsberger and I have been arguing about the placement of his insanely huge grill on our smallish back porch. I suggested we move it to the open side with the steps, where it is still covered by the roof, so we have the larger side for a table and chairs. He disagrees. He doesn't want it to get "splashed by the rain." I sighed and rolled my eyes at this statement.

So he said, "I know you're used to getting your own way and having things the way you like them. Every once in a while you run into the brick wall that is the husband. Then you turn him to jelly with pussy and guilt trips."

Things that Must Be Shared

This is how cool my job is.
We are in the process of changing some of our California and New York products out for other California and New York products. These particular products are sold mostly by our outside sales representatives, so I typed up a letter explaining the product change. That's not the cool part.
The following is an actual email exchange between myself and the vice president of the company I work for:

Vice Prez - Please print a copy of each letter for all changes. I will put them in the correct reps mail box so they also know we're trying to make this as painless as possible
Mrs. Pitsberger - The California reps already got them. I will print two New York copies for [name redacted] and [name redacted].
VP - Thanks, you're efficient!
MP - That's why you pay me the big bucks.
VP - Don't tell anyone.
MP - It'll be our little secret. But they might figure it out when they see my Maserati.
VP - HAHA!!
I don't know many other people who have exchanges like that with their bosses.


Mr. Pitsberger suggested a quote of the day feature here on "Listen to This." That might work if I blogged everyday, which I don't. I'm sure you're madly disappointed by that. However, I really like the idea. So, here's the first quote of the "day"...

Mrs. Pitsberger, to Mr. Pitsberger, during a discussion about my 56-year-old next door neighbor who told me that the last time she had sex I was still in diapers - "She's always in an awfully good mood for someone who hasn't had dick in 27 years."


And the quote from my "the Office" calendar for today is worth sharing - "I never smile if I can help it. Showing your teeth is a submission signal in primates. When someone smiles at me, all I see is a chimpanzee begging for its life."
- Dwight Schrute



I have to share this email that I got from my BFF earlier this week.
BFF - "I know that you get the hiccups quite a bit. Just wanted to let you know that one medically acceptable treatment for hiccups is "digital rectal massage". It's a win/win."
I wrote back: "Mr. Pitsberger will be happy to hear that. Just a question. Does the digital rectal massage have to come as a surprise?"
Her response: "Excellent question. Personally, I would always find digital rectal massage a surprise."
We're kinda retarded. It's what brings us together and tears us apart.

Turn Your Head and Cough

First off, let me just apologize for posting about my who-haw twice in a row. I can't help it. My va-jay-jay has been very busy lately. Also, it's a riveting topic of discussion.

I have my annual gynecological pelvic exam and pap smear scheduled for today. I hate that shit. You think I bitched about my period? You ain't seen nothin' yet.

Gyno exams, much like tampons, are seriously cruel. My experience in the past 8 years, since I lost my virginity, has led me to associate having someone between my legs with intense physical pleasure.
More specifically, naked with legs open = freaky da nasty. There is absolutely no freaky da nasty involved during a gyno exam. I can't think of anything less erotic. Other than kiddie porn. But that's just me, and I'm sure everyone who's ever been arrested on "Dateline: To Catch a Predator" would disagree.

Here's a list of everything I hate about going to the gyne (in order of occurrence)
1. Peeing in a cup - When you have a dick, peeing in a cup is not a challenge. When you don't, peeing in a cup goes something like this: you squat OVER the toilet, trying desperately to keep your balance, while you position the cup and try to piss in it, and not on it. A couple tablespoons of urine may hit the mark. You pray this is the case, otherwise you're sucking down a 20 ounce bottle of water and starting all over. The other cup and a half of smelly liquid waste ends up all over the toilet and your hands. It doesn't get on your pants, because you have enough experience attempting this circus act that you've wisely removed them.

2. Getting naked in an examination room - Make no mistake, you're naked. Completely, butt ass naked. Naked like Santonio Holmes in the shower naked. Sure they give you some disposable hospital johnny, but you have to put it on with the opening in the front. That's so they can feel up your ha-ha's as well as go spelunking in your lady cave. Plus, the temperature control is usually set just above freezing to make sure your nipples are nice and hard for good measure.

3. Putting my feet in those God-forsaken stirrups - Ugh. Do I really need to explain this one? It sucks. End of story.

4. Making small talk - This could be said for any of my life situations. I hate small talk. I hated it when I was still single and dating and I hate it now that I'm married. It's awkward, and 9 times out of 10 no one cares about the answers to the questions they're asking. But when a person who sees me once a year is fondling my breasts or peering at my cervix and asking me if it's hot enough for me, it makes me want to pull my foot out of the stirrup and kick him/her right in the face. Get in and get out!! I'm just going to lay here and focus on keeping a death grip on the very small amount of dignity I have left. Thanks so much.

5. Personal questions - No, I don't mean personal questions such as, "When was your last period?" There's no getting around that one. The questions that I cannot stand are questions like, "Did you shave recently?" Um, I don't see how your having that knowledge is going to make this end any sooner. And if you're not qualified enough to tell the difference between some razor bumps and genital warts, this is definitely the last time you're gonna see my flesh flower.

6. The Speculum - have you seen what those things look like? If not, brace yourselves. They look like medieval torture devices. And I have to go and voluntary have one plunged into my body. Most of the time they only have to do it once. The first time I ever went to have an exam, they put me alone in a room with an incompetent Physician's assistant student and they let her stab me with that shoe horn-lookin' bastard three frigging times before she finally got it positioned correctly. Then she said the five words that no one with her feet in stirrups ever wants to hear, "I've never seen that before." That's when I started crying.

I guess it could be worse. Talking to a female co-worker this afternoon, I discovered that her doctor does a rectal exam while she's down there. That's Mr. Pitsberger's territory.

Side note: doing a Google image search for "speculum" at work is not a wise idea. Also, I could have gone the rest of my life without knowing that people get turned on by this(NSFW!!)

I Hate my Uterus

I've been going through the same shit every single month for 17 years and I still despise it. I cannot deal with my period. I whine like a little girl when I know it's coming. I try to squeeze in all the sex possible with Mr. Pitsberger. Then I whine like a little girl when it arrives. Cramps are a bitch, dude. I feel like something is living in my lower abdomen and it is trying desperately to escape by kicking and punching the walls of my lady parts repeatedly. And it can't get out that way, so it tries my lower back.

Most people who have chronic monthly pain go to the doctor and the doctor tries to help them and in most cases, there are drugs or surgery or whatever to fix it. No. I have to suffer in silence. Ok, so suffering in silence isn't accurate since I'm writing a blog about it, but it's suffering just the same. It's not so much the pain that precedes and accompanies the period as the colossal pain in the ass that is caused when your va-jay-jay bleeds for five days straight. Having your genitals and asshole wet for the better part of a week is no barrel of monkeys. Pads are devices of torture made to show the world that no, there's no point in buying her a drink for the next 3-5 days. And tampons are just cruel. Think about it. They're shaped like little sex toys and they're made for the lady cave, but rather than bringing a woman pleasure, they signify the end of it for days on end.

There's no point in trying to get sympathy from Mr. Pitsberger, cause he just has no clue what it's like. Plus, one speck of blood on his weiner and he freaks out like Jeff Gillooly is heading toward him and is aiming high. So, Ladies, below I've come up with 10 ways to help your husband/boyfriend/fathers/cousins/brothers understand what a monster that monthly visitor really is.

Ten Ways to help your man understand what it's like to have a period

1. Have him lay down (preferably on a hard surface) and beat him repeatedly in the abdomen with a baseball bat. Get him to turn over and repeat on lower back.
2. Piss him off so badly that although he wants to stop screaming at you, he just can't.
3. Fill a condom with corn syrup and make him wear it for five days straight.
4. Rub his inner thighs with 60 grit sandpaper to simulate chafing. Repeat between butt cheeks.
5. Punch him in the chest 150 times, 75 hits on each side.
6. Do not allow him any kind of sexual gratification for 3-5 days. This includes self-stimulation.
7. Smear olive oil all over his face, paying special attention to chin, nose and forehead. Throw some in his hair too.
8. Smash his new, 50" plasma screen TV, forcing uncontrollable sobbing. This might also work for #2.
9. Buy him the ugliest, most unflattering underwear you can possibly find. Make sure you get at least five pairs.
10. Put him in a diaper. The bulkier, the better. Then make him carry one to the bathroom so everyone at his workplace knows he's wearing it.

Try these suggestions and I guarantee that your man will be ready with a hot water bottle, some Tylenol and a back massage every month when TOM shows up.

Side note: That picture is not of me, but it totally could be.

Dear Mr. Pitsberger,

I hope you like your "Freaks and Geeks: the Complete Series" on DVD. I know you'll like the sweet lovin' you're gonna get later.


Happy Birthday, Baby. I love you!

Yours always,
Mrs. Pitsberger

Open Letters

Dear Bloomfield Rite-Aid,
What the fuck? I understood that for whatever reason, the corporate office was making you lock your rubbers up and embarrass the hell out of your customers by forcing them to ask for the 36 count box of Lifestyles with two bottles of lube and seven pounds of candy in their arms. I got it. What can you do when those corporate bastards are forcing your hand? I know what it's like to have a boss you have to answer to. I can sympathize. But guess what, Bloomfield Rite-Aid? Monroeville Rite-Aid doesn't have their rubbers locked up. I waltzed right in there and grabbed some makeup and some Pepto-Bismol. And when I turned around, and saw that the rubbers were red-lock free, my heart soared!! Birds sang and rainbows appeared across the sky. I would not have to run down the one employee in the store (who incidentally, was also a 15 year old boy - what's up with that, Rite-Aid?) and tell him that I'm going to paint my face up like a whore and have my va-jay-jay annihilated. I would not have to hang my head in shame. I was free to take the rubbers of my choosing to the counter on my own. I stood in the "Family Planning" aisle and shouted, "FREEEEEEEEDDDDDDOOOOOOOMMMMMM!!" God bless Monroeville Rite-Aid.
So it isn't a corporate mandate, Bloomfield Rite-Aid. So what's the deal? Do you have to lock up the prophylactics because you're relatively close to/within walking distance of an area that some might call "the Hood?" If racism is the motive, I would think you'd be aware of the stereotype that black men don't use rubbers and what you would have on lockdown is your menthol cigarettes and fried chicken.
Whatever the reason, you can suck it, Bloomfield Rite-Aid. Stick your little red locks and the condoms that it protects up your snobbish, paranoid, racist ass!!!
Kiss my white ass,
Mrs. Pitsberger


Dear Readers,
I know what you're thinking and no, I have not gone through a 36 count box of condoms in two weeks. While Mr. Pitsberger and I do have mind-blowing and frequent sex, we also have full time jobs and a fixer-upper. I bought two boxes of condoms because it was double rebate week...and my entire purchase price will be refunded. Yay for free rubbers!!!
Gettin' my swerve on,
Mrs. Pitsberger


Dear Honda driver on Baum Boulevard,
When I was still behind your swerving ass, I could see that you were digging in your bag on the passenger seat for something. I can't imagine what it might have been. Cell phone? Ipod? Bottle of Jameson? Whatever it is, I hope it was important enough to warrant you crossing into my lane and almost side-swiping me. I wouldn't have even taken my life into my own hands by pulling up next to you if I hadn't had to make a right. Really? You need something that bad? Nothing is that important that you can't wait until you reach your destination to find it. Which, hopefully in your case, is Driver's Ed. People like you are the reason I want to carry a potato gun in my vehicle and unload it on the idiots who try to kill me on a daily basis. I desire nothing more than to pull the trigger on my spud cannon, releasing a giant tuber, and watch it fly into the side of your car with a satisfying crunch and hopefully a shattering of glass. Listen. You are behind the wheel of a 1,000 + pound vehicle made of metal and powered by flammable liquids. You could kill someone. And I wasn't really in the mood to die in a fiery car crash this morning, but thanks for checking. Get your head out of your ass and learn to drive, you stupid bitch.
Hooooonnnnnnkkkk,
Mrs. Pitsberger


Dear Mr. Mayor,
While the war on snow is probably over for this year, the potholes are kicking the shit out of you. You are getting a red ass beat down. My suggestion is to call out a full scale retreat. This is Pittsburgh, Mr. Ravenstahl. People have stepped in potholes, never to be heard from again. Compact cars have been lost forever. The potholes always win. You never had a chance. Sort of like my bracket.
Godspeed,
Mrs. Pitsberger

An Offer You Can't Refuse

My brother-in-law and his wife, who seem to feel it is their personal mission to add to the already over-populated earth, just had a new baby girl at the beginning of March. They need to go ask the 15 year old at Rite Aid for some rubbers. She is adorable and quiet, the latter of which sets her far apart from their other two toddlers, whom Mr. Pitsberger and I like to call Pebbles and Bam-Bam. I am hoping the new baby turns out more like their teenaged son, who disappears to his room for hours at a time during family functions. I'm not nice, I know it. But you try having an adult conversation in the midst of two swirling cyclones. Good effing luck.
So anyway, I was surrounded by screaming children on Saturday because my BIL and SIL asked me to be the godmother of their new baby. Which is awesome. Brutal honesty, I was touched and honored that they would think of me. In fact, when I got the email, I even cried at work, which is something I do way more often than I should. Way more often.
I had no idea what I was supposed to do. One of Mr. Pitsberger's co-workers suggested I fill my cheeks with cotton balls and say things like, "What have I ever done to make you treat me so disrepectfully?" I was afraid I would have to dress up in glittery wings and wave a wand around, but then I realized that's a fairy godmother.

Turns out, all I had to do was go to the baptism and say "I do" and "I am" and "I will" a whole bunch of times. It kind of reminded me of my wedding. Minus the baby in my arms, of course. I'm white trash, but not that white trash.
Mr. Pitsberger and I were standing in the foyer just after mass, waiting for the church to clear out. As my husband and I waited, Boo Radley's brother in a suit and tie,
comb-over flying all over the place(and we're inside, mind you), walked over and started chatting me up.
"Ah you hair for da baptism?"
"Yes."
"Who get-ting baptized?"
"Mrs. Pitsberger's brother-in-law and wife's baby."
"Oh. You muss be the wife's sister."
"I'm her sister-in-law."
"Oh." At this point he indicates my stomach, which admittedly is not flat as a board but certainly doesn't look like a smuggled basketball and says "And yer havin' one too, right?"
The appalled/enraged look on my face must have told him what a mistake he'd made because he immediately retracted his statement and started stammering that he hadn't meant it like that. And then he ran away. Which is pretty much what I felt like doing.

Side note/fun fact: I've only seen "To Kill a Mockingbird" a few times (they don't make movies like that anymore, I highly recommend it) but I never realized until I searched for that picture that Boo Radley is Robert Duval. That's what I get for fast-forwarding credits.

Who Needs Aruba?

It's supposed to get really nice this week and I have nothing else to talk about, so it's road trip time again. Make sure you tinkle before we leave.

The World's Largest Ball of Twine Darwin, MN



Here it is, Boys and Girls. The World's Largest Ball of Twine. Isn't it magnificent? I know you've been waiting for it.

Francis Johnson is responsible for this miracle. This guy spent 4 hours every day for 39 YEARS wrapping some twine into a ball. Dude, are you mental? I calculated it. Four hours a day, and let's say that he took Saturday and Sunday off, is 1,040 hours a year. Multiplied by 39 years, that's 40,560 hours. Over 40,000 hours spent rolling twine INTO A BALL!!! Didn't he have a job? Or a wife and kids? Or anything, absolutely anything else to do?
If I had four hours to kill every single day, you can bet your ass I would find something a hell of a lot more exciting to do than make the world's largest cat toy.

There is another enormous ball of twine located in Cawker City, KS. According to Roadside America, "These balls have become symbols of civic pride for a few lucky communities." Oh, I got jokes, but who needs 'em?

How unfair is it that the same state boasts not only the world's largest twine ball, but also is home to one of the World's only double decker outhouses?

They also have this and this. That corn maze is pretty bad ass. Who knew Minnesota was such a hot bed of tourist attractions?
We're gonna make a pit stop at the Larry Craig Solicitation bathroom and we're picking up souvenirs at Eichten's Cheese-n-Bison so bring some spending money.

I wanna go see some humongous fake cows too.

Them's some tig ole bitties.

Damn you, USC!!! Damn you to the Bowels of HELL!!!

I know that practically every top-seed won, so I'm not like, a March Madness bracket genius or anything. But that doesn't change the fact that I am 15 of 16 and would have been perfect if not for USC taking a flogging from Kansas State! Luckily, I'm still tied for first in the work poll, so I won't have to take a business trip to Southern CA. And my business is kicking ass.

The Madness of Mrs. Pitsberger

Here's my bracket.

Last year I filled out a bracket a) because I wanted in on the work pool and b) because I knew Mr. Pitsberger was going to torture me with three weeks of college basketball games that I couldn't give two shits about and I needed something to get excited over in lieu of sex. Since I don't get any while March Madness is happening. I came in second and it went down the final game. The winner had Florida, and I had OSU.

I have Pitt losing to Texas in the Elite Eight. I wouldn't mind being wrong and seeing Pitt take it all, especially after the red ass beatdown they put on Oral Roberts this afternoon. So far, I am 8 for 8. The pot is $80, which will buy me a bad ass handbag and a new pair of shades. I'm gonna own this!

Hating Me Won't Make You Pretty

They're picking on me!!

When I started this blog, I made a promise to myself. This isn't like the time I promised myself I'd never snort coke again. This one I was actually going to keep. I promised myself I wouldn't write posts bitching about my co-workers, but they'll never know it's me and I'm pretty sure no one is reading this (that was a desperate and thinly veiled plea for comments, by the way), so I'm breaking my promise to myself. I'll never trust me again.

I am getting the silent treatment from a co-worker. No, my company does not employ four-year-olds. I am getting the silent treatment from a 68-year-old woman. That's right boys and girls, Grandma Moses is pissed off at me.

I take that back. Comparing her to Grandma Moses is not accurate. Grandma Moses was a sweet old lady who took pleasure in her art. This old hag (I'll call her FC) doesn't take pleasure in anything. Except maybe making my life a living hell. I could sit here and list everything I can't stand about her, but I don't have that kind of time. So, I'll just tell you that she has absolutely no redeeming qualities. At all. What she does have is such an overinflated sense of self-importance that I'm baffled by the fact that her head fits through the front door. This Mount Everest sized ego does not keep her from being jealous of me. I am a hopeless flirt, it cannot be helped. Mr. Pitsberger knows and accepts it. It's what I do, it's who I am. Well, the boys at work flirt back and she absolutely cannot stand it! On more than one occassion, she has chided our married warehouse manager to "Remember your vows!" I can feel her vast hatred of me emanating from her like stink from shit. I don't like it when she stands behind me...I'm that afraid that she's plotting my demise. Like I haven't been feeling well for the past few days, and I've almost convinced myself that she's poisoning my lunch.

I know you're sitting there reading this and thinking to yourself, "That's mean. FC is just an old lady." But that's part of her plan, you see? If you spent 10 minutes listening to this fossilized bag complain about the weather, her job and life in general you would see the error of your ways. You would pray for mercy and beg for death.

The reason that she's not speaking to me is because she was 'noiding out yesterday and convinced herself that I was laughing at her with some of our colleagues. In truth, we were having chuckle about the stupidity of one of our customers. So, when I giggled about an email I got from one of the salesmen, she looked up from her cube and said (in the bitchiest, snottiest tone of voice I've ever heard), "What's funny?" I replied, "Yeah, it's about you. You need to get over yourself." Silent pouting ensued. She hasn't spoken a word to me since.

I can't complain too much, though. When I'm getting the silent treatment, I don't have to hear about her dumping in K-mart, the car and various other public places.




FC in a rare moment of joy.

The Little Red Lock

Ok, I am 28 years old. I am married. I wear my rings. So I am not at all embarrassed to walk into K-Mart and take a box of condoms and a bottle of Astroglide (bow chicka bow bow) to the register and check out. Not in the least. You may think it's strange that two people who've been in a monogamous relationship for over 5 years still use rubbers. There's a reason for this. Actually, two reasons. One is that due to my family medical history it is dangerous for me to be on hormonal birth control. The second reason is I'm convinced that 1/2 the effectiveness of said birth control is that is makes you not want to have sex. Plus, when I'm on hormones I'm like that hot chick in "Army of Darkness" after she makes out with bad Ash. I'm not a very nice girl.
I discovered that K-Mart no longer stocks the brand of condoms that Mr. Pitsberger prefers. I personally couldn't give two shits what kind of rubbers we use, but he refuses to wear Trojans and he's had a bad experience with Durex. He likes the Lifestyles Ultra-Sensitive "Almost like wearing nothing at all brand." That was probably a bit more than you wanted or needed to know about our chosen prophylactics. But I digress. Since K-mart doesn't have them anymore, I tried Target. No use. The last place I had seen them was Rite-Aid. So, I march into Rite-Aid and since it's Easter and there's candy all up in my face, I cannot resist grabbing a bag of mini Reese's cups, a package of marshmallow Peeps (the bunny ones) a box of Cadbury creme eggs and a pack of 1 dozen mini Cadbury creme eggs (better than the full size ones because they don't put you on a sugar high for three days) adorably packaged in a little egg carton. Then I'm off to the "Family Planning" section. Yes, it says that. What it should say is "Not Planning Family." I'm checking out the lube cause we're almost out of Astroglide, too. I grab a bottle of that. Then I'm checking out the other lube and they have this "Play" stuff that's made by Durex with menthol in it. It's supposed to make your va-jay-jay all tingly. Now I'm remembering the Gold Bond incidents at a friend's house years ago and I have to try it. If you've never had Gold Bond on your va-jay-jay, it's breathtaking, I suggest you try it. So, let's recap. I now have in my arms:

1 humongous bag of mini Reese's cups
1 package (12) marshmallow Peeps brand bunnies
1 box (3) Cadbury creme eggs
1 package (12) mini Cadbury creme eggs (adorably packaged in a little egg carton)
1 bottle (10 oz. - the big one) of Astroglide Personal Lubricant
1 bottle (8 oz.) of Durex Play personal lubricant

Sounds like a recipe for one wild party, right? I'm all set except for my condoms. I'm extremely pleased to see that they have the Lifestyles Ultra-sensitive ("Almost like wearing nothing at all") Brand. They're hanging up by the little tabs on the top of the box. I reach down to grab one and notice that there is a little red plastic lock on the end of the bar from which my desired prophylactics are hanging!! Now I am realizing, to my horror, that I am going to have to go to the counter, get the one available employee, who by the way, looks like he is about 15, and tell him that, "Hey, I need a box of condoms," hang out in the "Family Planning" section while he gets the keys and point out that I need the value size 36 count box of Lifestyles Ultra-sensitive ("Almost like wearing nothing at all") brand, with my arms full of candy and lube. And that's exactly what happened. I'm just glad we weren't out of Hershey's chocolate syrup and whipped cream. I would have had to just go somewhere else for my rubbers if that were the case.
I know I said I'm not embarrassed to buy rubbers, but there is a huge difference between taking your condoms to the counter, where both parties involved can just pretend that the cashier doesn't know someone's tapping your ass tonight, and having to chase down an employee to tell him directly to his face "Hi, I'm getting laid later and I need the biggest box of condoms you sell. Thanks." Let's lock up the maxi pads and hemorrhoid cream while we're at it.
I honestly thought I was going to die of embarrassment. Have you ever tried to NOT blush when you are completely mortified? There's no way to NOT blush. It's like trying to sneeze with your eyes open. Impossible. Anyway, I paid for all my shit and I was outta there. It didn't occur to me until I was halfway home and my face had faded to merely pink instead of crimson, that I could have just ripped the damn tab on the top of the box, taken them to the counter and been like, "I'm not stealing these, obviously, but I am not about to ask a 15 year old boy if I can have some rubbers. Thanks." God, was that humiliating. I'm buying my birth control on the Internet from now on.

Snark Attack

A MISSED STALKING OPPORTUNITY
Why, God, why didn't anyone tell me Seth Rogen was in town? If Clive Owen is that guy that I would have a mad, passionate, steamy love affair with, Seth Rogen is that guy I would marry. He actually reminds me of my husband. Only more famous. And with way more money.
And he's Canadian. I love Canadians!! I'm not going to do the "eh" joke. That's even further beneath me than di"stink"tion.

Ain't he cute as a button, ya'll? I swear on my iPod Mr. Pitsberger has that exact same hair.

TP FOR MY BUNGHOLE!!!
If the movie industry in Hollywood ever decides to sink lower than it already has and green light a live action Beavis and Butthead "film," they will totally have the Beavis role cast:

Butthead is probably snorting coke off a hooker's ass at this very moment.

LIKE, HELLO!
Apparently, 1 in 4 teenage girls has an STD and everyone is all surprised about it.
"This is pretty shocking," said Dr. Elizabeth Alderman, an adolescent medicine specialist at Montefiore Medical Center's Children's Hospital in New York.
"Those numbers are certainly alarming," said sex education expert Nora Gelperin, who works with a teen-written Web site called sexetc.org
Uh, have they seen the way teenage girls dress now? If I had walked out of the house in an outfit that showed my ass and every other lady part I have, my father would have chased me down and made me change into something that didn't look like it came out of the back of a hooker's closet. And if he couldn't catch me, you can bet your ass he'd be waiting when I got back.
I completely understand preaching abstinence first, but abstinence ONLY? That's like sending soldiers into battle and telling them, "Ok. We don't want you to shoot anybody, so we're not going to show you how to use a gun. Hope you don't get killed. Good luck and Godspeed." Are you kidding me?
Oh, and here's a newflash to parents: it's not the schools' responsibility to teach your kids about sex. It's yours. Kids are going to do what they want regardless of what you want for them. The most you can do is teach them to make good decisions.
And that's why my womb is on LOCK-DOWN.

Phew!!!

*Sigh* He's so dreamy.
(Yes, I have my chin in my hand.)


I know you're all dying for an update. I will NOT be quitting Clive cold turkey or at all, in fact. Do they make a Clive patch or "Clive Away" pills? Anyway, "Children of Men" was not nearly as sucktastic as "Shoot 'Em Up." I am not going to offer a review, because there was really nothing to snark on. It was just okay. A bit hard to follow mostly due to the accents, but watchable if you're like me and Clive = porno. And who doesn't like that equation?

The Tools at the Hardware Store

One of the best things about owning a fixer-upper is getting to shop at the boy stores. Boy stores include, but are not limited to The Home Depot, Lowes, Busy Beaver, etc. Only a boy would name a store "Busy Beaver." And a hardware store, nonetheless. Where you get nails, and hammers, and air wrenches. Can you see all the possibilities? Only a boy, readers. Only a boy.
My favorite thing about shopping at boy stores is all the charming looks you get from male customers when you're a hot, young woman who is by herself. It's the kind of look Hilary Clinton would get if she showed up at the Playboy mansion. Or Britney Spears if she showed up at a Self-Respect Convention.
Something like this.
I sometimes get a kick out of imagining men's inner monologue.
"Hmm. I wonder what that big breasted woman is doing here without a man. How's she going to know what she needs? Maybe she's one of those lesbian types. Oooh, lesbian types."
Or if I'm shopping with my sister: "Oooh, hot lesbian types."
Side note: I bought a pair of work boots last week, I own a tool box, a tool belt and three saws among various other power tools. It is entirely possible that I am a lesbian type. But certainly not with my sister. Gross.
I was at the Home Depot about a month ago, picking up a bunch of materials for my bathroom closet. And can I just say, that closet looks bad.ass. I made that closet my bitch, ya'll. I had one of those flat bed carts loaded up with some MDF (that's medium density fiberboard for you straight girls), shelf tracking, brackets, saw horses, base board trim, etc. So, I'm pushing this heavy ass cart around with some effort and I pass these two guys. As I'm making my way down the aisle to checkout I hear one of them say, "What's she doing with all that wood?
Oh, I'm sorry. Am I not allowed to purchase this much wood? Is there a wood ration I haven't heard about? Or is this 1941 Germany and my breasts are akin to a Star of David armband, therefore, I am not permitted to buy, sell or trade in this store? WTF, dude!! What am I doing with all this wood? I'm shoving it up your ass, you misogynistic dickhead.
I took his picture with my cell phone, so Ladies, if you see him, make sure you kick him in the happy sac for me. Tell him, "That's what she's doing with all that wood, Bitch."
The employees at the big chains are just as bad as the customers. I'm not including "The Beave" in that because the employees there are wonderfully helpful and kind and not at all condescending. I love "The Beave." See? Only a boy. Unfortunately, there are some things you just can't find at the Busy Beaver. Like a clitoris, if you're a man. Even I can't resist making a Busy Beaver joke. I've gotta be a lesbian. Add that to my list of issues. Number 3: Closet lesbianism. Side note: I do not have a problem with lesbians. Please don't send me hate mail. Thank you.
Back to the boy stores.
There are two types of male employees at the Home Depot: the type that is extremely helpful and chases you down to see if you need assistance in finding something or the type that you have to chase down for help and that proceeds to make fun of you while reluctantly giving it once you catch them. I've had both, and I much prefer the pursuant type, although they tend to drool on female customers. I'll take it as long they show me how to install ceramic tile.
The other kind do not even try to hide their disdain. They just try to hide. As if they're not getting paid to help you. HELLO!?! "The Home Depot. You can do it. We can HELP!?!" It's not, "The Home Depot. You may be able to do it. We'll help if we feel like it. But only if you're not a woman. If you are, we're sure you have a husband, father or brother you can ask for advice. If you don't, there's a Busy Beaver right down the street."
So, this is really going to make me sound like a lesbian, but Ladies, if you need a tool or advice I strongly suggest you head to the Beave.

Confessions of a Cliveaholic

If you don't know how obsessed I am with Clive Owen,
check out this post and get back to me.

I may have hit rock bottom because movie #4 on my Netflix queue arrived yesterday and it's "Children of Men," staring (who else but the man who moistens my panties) Clive Owen. I wouldn't be so worried about it if the plot synopsis didn't go like this:

"In 2027, in a chaotic world in which humans can no longer procreate, a former activist agrees to help transport a miraculously pregnant woman to a sanctuary at sea, where her child's birth may help scientists save the future of humankind. "
Can't you just hear the deep-voiced movie trailer guy right now?

Have you seen "Shoot 'Em Up?" If you haven't, and you haven't read my post (and why the hell not?), I will tell you that the plots for these two movies are remarkably alike. Both involve Clive as a random guy, helping a pregnant woman/baby that is desperately needed to "save" something. I am fervently hoping that "Children of Men" does not suck donkey balls like "Shoot 'Em Up" did. Cause if it does, I am quitting Clive cold turkey.

Screw Tahiti!!

Since the weather was so great a few days ago, I decided that I should start planning my next vacation. I'm not one of those beachy people. I love the ocean, but I HATE, HATE, HATE the sand. Butt cracks and va-jay-jays are not meant be exfoliated. Not ever. Also, German Irish + sun = bad news. When I go on vacation I like to visit museums and Halls of Fame and The World's Biggest Ball of Yarn. I started doing some research and I found quite a few places that I am interested in visiting in the near future.

1. The National Freshwater Fishing Hall of Fame - Hayward, WI

If I was driving around Hayward, WI and I came up on that humongous muskie unawares, I would probably piss my pants. And if that didn't do it, the Bigfoot dummies inside most certainly would.

Reminds me of my Grandpa Amos.
You will also see "a memorial exhibit to Herman the Worm, a sickly Canadian night crawler that was nursed back to health by a freshwater fisherman and eventually made a guest appearance on The Tonight Show." I swear on my future children I didn't make that last part up. PETA is going to be all over my ass for this, but why the hell would a fisherman NURSE A NIGHTCRAWLER BACK TO HEALTH?? More importantly, how do you go about doing so?

2. William P. Didusch Center for Urologic History - Baltimore, MD


What a good time this is gonna be. Who hasn't wondered about the history of urology? I certainly have. In fact, I've spent many a free hour contemplating exactly what type of instruments are utilized when poking in and around someone's pee hole and how the instruments and procedures used today differ from those used during the Civil War. When I get back from the Urologic History Museum, I'm fully expecting to have a more restful night's sleep. Plus a lot more free time.

Here's a quote from curator Rainer M. Engel, who was born in 1933 Germany. "My early years were heavily influenced by World War II—bombings, troops marching through our city and bodies in the street—which left an indelible impression on me." Ya THINK?!! Unfortunately, that impression was, "I think I'd like to make a career out of poking in and around peoples' pee holes."

On a side note, that picture makes me want to curl into a fetal position and cry.

3. The World's Only Double Decker Outhouse and America's Only Two Story Outhouse


I know that title makes no sense, but it does. Let me explain. There are several towns that are actually fighting for the title of the "only" double decker outhouse and the di"stink"tion that comes with it. Ok, that was beneath me. But I thought it was funny anyway.
"The Booger Hollow Trading Post, along Scenic 7 Byway, in Dover, Arkansas, proudly" lays claim to the World's Only Double Decker Outhouse. Do I even need to make a joke here? This isn't even a challenge.
I can only imagine that a double decker/two story outhouse must be twice as disgusting and smelly as a single story one.

This is the Samuel Bowler house in Belle Plaine, MN. And that structure to the left of it is a two story outhouse. What's cool about this outhouse is that not only does it "boast" five holes, there's a skyway that allows access from the upstairs. Did I just say something was "cool" about an outhouse? I have got to stop putting Jameson on my frosted mini wheats. Tours are conducted of the house so you can check it out. And there will be plenty more where this came from.

Ok, boys and girls, can you say "road trip?" I call shot gun!!

Behind the Green Paneling

That's right. Keep smiling, you bastard.

Mr. Pitsberger and I bought our first house back in August. I love my house. If I didn't love my house, I would not have spent more money than I make in 18 months to get it. However, like husbands, small children and anal sex, you can love something even though it's an enormous pain in the ass. And my house is absolutely an enormous pain in the ass. This is mostly due to the fact that we did something ragingly stupid in order to save money. Unfortunately, I'm not rich. Prostitution doesn't pay as well as it used to. We're in a recession, you know. Anyway, in order to get the kind of house we wanted at a price we could afford, we bought a fixer-upper.

Here it is.

I kid! It's not quite that bad. The house is actually in great shape. I hope I look as good as it does when I'm 108 years old. It's a big, old, five bedroom, three story, brick Victorian, complete with awe-inspiring wood work, stained glass and three fireplaces with original hearths and mantles. Considering that Mr. Pitsberger and I don't have any children and really aren't planning on having them at all, five bedrooms was a bit excessive, but we loved the house so much we couldn't pass it up. We're in it for the long haul and the home inspector told us that most of the work that needs done is cosmetic and hey, it usually only takes me 15 minutes to put my makeup on. How bad can this be? Worse than my worst possible nightmare.
My house and I are embroiled in a Civil War: a war in which parties within the same society fight against each other for the control of political power. Also, resolution of each project takes four years. Nothing is easy. Contrary to popular belief, a 41" shelf does not fit in 41" of space, even though I measured twice, cut once. Thanks for nothing, Bob Vila. You son of a bitch.
Every day is an adventure when you buy a fixer-upper. Behind some ugly ass green 70s paneling in one of the bedrooms I actually found a door. A door, in a frame, that leads into another bedroom. Or at least it would if the other bedroom wasn't paneled as well. I should try to walk through it. Maybe it's a doorway to another dimension. A dimension in which my house doesn't have rhino sized holes in the plaster where the previous owners updated the electrical wiring. And by "updated" I mean effed up completely.
I'm convinced that my house is trying to break me. It knows just how much bullshit I can take before I snap, yank my hammer out of my tool belt and start swinging at everything within reach while screaming obscenities that would cause Tony Soprano to first blush, then ask me to watch my mouth. It knows. It's like my very own Amityville Horror, only there's no Ryan Reynolds. Bummer.
I've been working on the bathroom closet since the dawn of man. I've been working on the bathroom closet for a while now. Before that I was stripping, staining and re-hanging the basement door. Those are the two projects I've gotten done in five months, not counting demolition, which seems to only make things look worse.
The reason things take me so long is that along with my chronic acute nebbitosis, I suffer from home remodeling dysmorphic disorder. I have issues, what can I say? Like you're so perfect. Symptoms of HRDD include engaging in repetitive and time-consuming behaviors, such as excessive unnecessary sanding, priming the inside of bathroom closets, and trying to hide or cover up a perceived defect. Also, constantly asking for reassurance that the defect is not visible or too obvious and repeatedly measuring or touching the perceived defect and inability to stop focusing on the perceived defect.
I actually said this to my husband: "Mr. P, I think this bathroom closet in which I am going to hang shelving anyway needs a third coat of paint." OK, maybe those weren't my exact words.
His reply: "I think it looks better than the inside of a closet should ever look." He's right. And not only does it look better than the inside of a closet should ever look, it looks better than ANY OTHER FREAKING ROOM IN MY ENTIRE HOUSE!! I told Mr. P I was going to sleep in there.
But take note, House. I will take you down brick by em-effing brick if I have to. I am straight gansta, Bitch. Bob Vila.ain't.got.nuthin'.on me!
Are there therapists for people like me? Cause I am in desperate need of one.

He's Got a Purty Mouth

It was brought to my attention yesterday that there is a Burt Reynolds Museum. I discovered this because my boss left me a voicemail asking me to look up the phone number for said museum. As soon as I heard "Mrs. Pitsberger, can you get me the telephone number for the Burt Reynolds museum," I shouted "HA!!" and started laughing hysterically. Good thing I get to work earlier than most of my colleagues. Anyway, as soon as I knew that there was a Burt Reynolds Museum, I surfed over to Google. Remember I'm afflicted with Chronic Acute Nebbitosis. And by God, there IS a Burt Reynolds Museum. It's located in Jupiter, FL, which I think is appropriate because anyone who would actually visit a museum dedicated solely to the Bandit must be from another planet. Anyway, here (verbatim) is the mission statement:

"The mission of the Jupiter Film and Theatre Institute is to provide educational opportunities to young actors and filmmakers, and to preserve the history of the cultural contributions of Burt Reynolds."

On the one hand, that is a noble mission. I mean, think about it. If it weren't for Burt Reynolds, Trans Ams would never get their due. Especially the ones with eagles and the like painted on their hoods. And I ask you: who rocks a seventies porn 'stache better than Burt?

Proof that the answer is no one.


On the other hand, "THE CULTURAL CONTRIBUTIONS OF BURT REYNOLDS"?!!! Are you freakin' kidding me? Burt Reynolds? The Burt Reynolds that Norm MacDonald impersonates? You know when you're a joke? When they make you a SNL character.

Just a few things you can see at the Burt Reynolds and Friends Museum:
The Deliverance Canoe, the Bandit Car, the helmet from "The Longest Yard" and the boots from Burt's most famous and well-acted movie ever, "Striptease." But the very best part is the gift shop.

Check out this bad boy and remember that my birthday is in November.

Hopefully, I can hold out that long.

Wow...that sucked

My husband and I recently signed up for Netflix. We were members a long time ago, but we found we didn't have the time or the inclination to watch the movies. On top of which, we have absolutely nothing in common, and "nothing" includes movie preferences. Sometimes I get bummed about it, but mostly I can deal with it, due to the amazing sex that comes along with being married to Mr. Pitsberger. But I digress. Anyway, a couple months ago, when we bought our house we made the decision to not get any kind of pay TV. I know, we're freaks, right? You should see some of the looks I get when I tell people I don't have cable. It's the same sort of look you'd get if you told someone you had three nipples or eleven toes. Or that you like to eat babies for breakfast. Obviously, I still have an internet connection and we frequent Half-Price Books, so I was surprised to realize earlier this week that I am happy with having no TV. But there are times when I just want to vegetate in front of the boob tube, so we signed up for Netflix. We watched the first movie in our queue, Shoot 'Em Up last night. Well, I watched it. He lasted about five minutes before he'd had enough and went to hit the online poker tables. I, on the other hand, sat through the entire movie. I have this curse, you see. If I start watching something, I have to see how it ends. I actually sat through "Deal or No Deal" last week, I've sat through countless Lifetime and Cinemax movies, I even watched "Gigli" when I caught it in the middle on HBO. Why? Because I had to. I HAD to know how it ended. It's a disease. I call it Chronic Acute Nebbitosis. Thankfully not life-threatening, but annoying and sometimes painful just the same.
And it's lucky for you that I have this ailment because I can tell you that "Shoot 'Em Up" is the most horrible, craptastic piece of movie making crap I have ever seen in my life. Keep in mind I watched "Gigli." With Ben Affleck. And Jennifer Lopez. She played a les.bi.an. She can't even act like she likes her husband, let alone act like she likes girls. So, "Shoot 'Em Up" was almost unwatchable. The only salvation for this movie, and the only reason even with my acute nebbitosis that I sat through it, was Clive Owen. Not that it was so wonderfully acted, just that I got to look at him a whole bunch. I don't know which part was worse: the absurd premise (gun control-endorsing terminally ill Senator harvesting babies of his own making for bone marrow vs. gun manufacturer and henchmen trying to kill one of said babies which indirectly would kill the Senator), or the ridiculous dialogue ("Tell me a story." "Maybe later, when I put you to sleep,") or the fact that I saw two, yes two(!) people get killed with carrots!!! Carrots!!! Could there be anything more ridiculous? Among other unbelievably stupid scenes/plot elements: a gunfight during a sky dive, a lactating hooker and bullets fired by being placed between fingers and held in front of a fireplace. Also, if I had a nickel for every shot fired in this movie, I'd be buying a Benz right now.
Yeah. So do yourself a favor and skip this one. If you're like me and you absolutely MUST look at Clive, and desperately need to hear that sexy, husky-voiced British accent (please excuse me for a moment, I'm getting women woodies just thinking about it...ok, I'm better) I suggest "Closer," "Sin City" or "King Arthur."
In summation, I give "Shoot 'Em Up" a half star. Clive sure is hot though. He should never be allowed to wear clothes. I'm starting a petition.

My first time

I've had a few friends suggest that I start a blog. And since Pittgirl is my hero and I want to be just like her, I took their advice. I guess they would prefer that I bitch to the world at large as opposed to them. Anyway, this is my first post and I will try to keep the bitching to a minimum. Something for which I'm sure you'll thank me. Just don't get used to it.

For this, my first post, I will give you some background. It's all about me. At least, it is in my warped little mind. I am by no means an exciting person. I get drunk perhaps twice a year on certain birthdays (mine and others - I know I only have one birthday a year). I am married to a wonderful man. We have a lot of fun together. I haven't decided yet if I'm going to tell him about this genius blog idea. It might not end well if I posted something embarrassing which I'm planning to do sometime soon. And by "it" I mean our marriage. Although now that I think about it, no marriage ends well. Even if you do stay together until death do you part, you're, well, you're dead. Moving on...
I grew up in Western Pa toward the Alabama part of the state and I currently live in Pittsburgh - if the name didn't give it away. So, I'm just a small town girl trying to make it in the big city.
I'm going to use this blog as a way to be creative and to do the writing that my mother always nagged me to do. I'm in accounting. I don't really get to express myself at work. I should be using my talents for good, but evil's so much more fun. I will remain anonymous, at least for as long as I can keep quiet about it. Which is probably about as long as Lindsay Lohan can go without exposing herself. And again, I'm new at this. So if a link or pic doesn't work at first, bear with me please. I'm doing the best I can. God!!
In any case, bon appetit!