Wednesday, April 30, 2008
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?
Sunday, April 27, 2008
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."
Saturday, April 26, 2008
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.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
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!!)
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
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.
Friday, April 11, 2008
Thursday, April 10, 2008
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,
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,
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.
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.