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.