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.