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!