Valentine's Day-PPB Style

Until I was 10 years old, Valentine’s Day was a day in which my classmates and I exchanged goofy little cards that we dropped into handmade pouches taped to the sides of our desks.  Some years one of the not so frazzled class moms would bring in cupcakes or we would munch on some of those dry, powdery conversation hearts after we tried to create every dirty sentence we could out of them.  That was the extent of it.  My parents probably went out.   I remember a heart shaped box of chocolate or two.  I was usually the recipient of such a box but Valentine’s Day really was a non event in our household. 

In 1980, the year of my 10^th birthday, my baby sister was born.  On February 14^th.  In the years that followed, February 14^th was my sister’s birthday, not Valentine’s Day.  We were special now.  Within the confines our immediate family, Valentine’s Day fell behind the back burner and onto the floor.  It was fine with us.  Birthdays meant cake.  Cake is good.  This was not a negative happening.  There was still the goofy card exchange at school, lots of heart shaped crafts in art class, and I still received the obligatory heart box of chocolate each year.  Now though, there was a reason, a real reason, for us to celebrate.   We were the coolest.  We had a heart baby. 

When my baby sister reached school age, the months of January and February were spent peddling cookies for the local scouts.  Selling (and buying) cookies took a significant amount of time, energy, money, and patience.  Valentine’s Day continued to hide out in the background.  Cookies were now considered a valentine treat. I was too old for the school parties at this point and after the scout cookies and a birthday party, it took no trouble at all to brush away this silly heart holiday.  

Now in my head all of this non Valentine activity made perfect sense.  I was a realist.  My heart, though, had a different wish.  It wished for one of those romantical, lovey-dovey, 10 minute kiss on the balcony, dinner, drinks, dancing, and a walk on the beach nights all rolled into one heart shaped evening of bliss.  When I traded in living with the family unit for a place of my own, I decided I would still celebrate my sister’s birthday but I had to start working on my dream date.  My Valentine's Day dream date.  

No so much.  We had moved from Chicago to the Daytona Beach area.  February in Daytona Beach isn’t romantic.  It isn’t even remotely romantic.  There’s this little two week event in February called Speed Weeks.  Ever heard of the Daytona 500?  Every year around the 14^th of February is when that race occurs.  That means the entire county in which I live is filled about two hundred thousand (or so) extra folks.  Who wouldn’t want to travel to Florida in February? Who didn’t want to bask in the sun while whichever snow riddled city they had traveled from was frozen over?  Every restaurant, bar, beach, club within 60 miles was filled to the max with race fans.  There are no quiet romantic dates on Valentine's Day in this town.  

  

What the Fuck?

Once I was married there were dinners out of town, overnight trips, last minute chocolate, gas station roses, movies, numerous cute but useless stuffed animals, and even edible underwear to celebrate the holiday of hearts.  Stuff I planned because I wanted to go somewhere and the holiday was the excuse.  Not the undies or the gas station roses, the other stuff.  Deep down I had no interest in this ridiculous red and pink holiday of hearts but the non-stop commercials promising diamonds and kisses were wearing me down.  Where in the hell was my chocolate diamond, damn it? 

I never did get a chocolate diamond.  Hell, I never got any diamond.  I have countless numbers of little fuzzy white bears holding red satin hearts.  I don’t even know who they’re from anymore but I have them.  Was Valentine’s Day ever unpleasant?  Not that I recall.  It just wasn’t the hyped up version of all things love that I had created in my head from seeing all the propaganda.  It never will be.

Now that I’m older, Valentine’s Day itself, means almost zero to me.  It’s my sister’s birthday.  It’s a race day.  It’s cookie day.  It’s just another day.  I have been married, single, dating, madly in love, bored to death, and divorced on Valentine’s Day.  None was better than the rest.  As for my dream date, it will happen one day.  I don’t care what day it is.  Love is love.  Infatuation is infatuation.  If it’s right, romance will happen when it’s meant to, not on a day covered in pink and red hearts. 

This year, I’ll be spending the Valentine holiday with the love of my life.  My daughter.  A friend and her son will be joining us.  It will be special.  It will be filled with love.  There will be food.  There will be booze.  It will be a joyous occassion.

Life is good.

In all seriousness I would pass on the dream date completely if I could find a man who could make a reservation without asking me a single fucking question.  A goofy card would be cool too. 

PPB aka The Precious Princess - The Princess is a twice divorced, recently dumped, recently unemployed, self-proclaimed member of the mentally hilarious. She has been referred to as living under a rock stocked with vodka and anger. Her 12 year old “Mini”, who is carbon copy of the Princess, is often the subject of blogs, and Facebook posts. In addition, she writes about dating, the dumbness of boys, life after 40, and shares stories from Bananaland which is both her past and current residence.  She is the owner/sole admin for the Facebook page Precious Princess's Guide to Bananaland where she is famous for her rants and her blunt, honest, and sarcastic look at life.  She blogs both extremely funny and all-the-feels posts at Princess Bananaland.  She hates people, kids, and karaoke. She uses all the swears and makes up dirty words.  Eventually when she’s done being sloth-like, she will write a book.  Be afraid. 

 

A letter to some boys

Dear Men boys,

I like most of you.  I do.  A lot.  I know that one of you out there was made just for me.  “A good man.   A true man.  A man to love me for sure”. (Thank you, Bette Midler for those eloquent words)  I joke about you and laugh about the things I think you’re good for and how dumb I think you are but the truth is, I really like you.  You are a necessity in life; as a partner but also as a father, a son, a brother, a friend, a coworker, and sometimes a backbone.  I also joke about women.  I’m famous for my “vagina=crazy” quote, and I’m quick to discuss how women are bitches.  In short, I fuck with all the sexes equally.  This letter is not to man-bash.

I’m writing to tell you something that has been bothering me for months.  I tried to ignore it.  I really did.  I tried not to judge you.  It thought that it really wasn’t my place.  The longer it went on, the more disgusted I became.  You all didn’t commit the heinous infraction I’m about to describe.  Many of you did. 

The bile is rising to my throat right now thinking about it.  I’m making “that” face as I type.  That face I make when I smell spoiled milk, rotting potatoes, or dog shit that has been frozen and thawed.  That face. 

Let me try and explain this to you without breaking down, crying my head off or calling each of you a sickening fuck.  You deserve all of the above but name calling solves nothing and I’m ugly when I cry.  In short, my long-term relationship ended.  As soon as one day after the relationship ended, I began receiving private messages on social media from you.  Not all of you. Just a few.  As the months went by, more of you joined the cluster of fools. Today it’s almost every man boy on my friends list.  Some of you are casual and cool, some flirty and cute, and some of you are downright fucked in the head with messages blatantly asking for sex and/or sexual favors.  All of you hiding and messaging in private.

It doesn’t seem like such a big deal, does it?  I’m single, why not?  Why shouldn't I enjoy messages from men boys who are supposed to be my friends?  Should be a great fit, no? A small portion of the “why not” is because each one of you are married or in what appears to be serious relationships. This makes you not only an asshole but the lowliest scum that exists.  The reason your partners don’t give it up to you or act the way you’d like them to is because they know.  Women aren't stupid.  But keep looking for other women to fill that hole that you caused.  I bet it’s working fantastically for you.  That’s not why I’m writing this. I’m not judging.  I don’t know your situation. 

You could have an open marriage, could be separated, or it could be that you are a fucktarded simpleton who needs to be wanted by more than one woman (the last option being the most possible choice).  I don’t care.  That’s your issue.  The real reason I’m writing this here story of woe is to ponder aloud, this:

Why did you message me? Was I so hot? Did you like me?  Did you want me? That’s what you wanted me to think.  You wanted me to think that you thought I was so freaking awesome that I would get my head all big and I’d fall for your insipid bullshit.  “He thinks I’m cute” so I’ll give him a piece of ass.   Those thoughts lasted a hot minute.  “Is it because I’m fat?” was my next thought. Big girls are easy.  Ain’t that right?  You thought my self-image was shot because I was dumped and overweight?  Did you figure that my self-esteem was so low you could get a quick roll with me and maybe even boost my self-esteem in one shot?  You’d have been doing me a favor. Right?  

Next this - “What kind of sleazy bag of shit do these men boys think I am”?  I couldn’t figure it out then and I still can’t.

I was either married or in a (what I thought was monogamous) relationship the entire time I knew the lot of your sorry asses. What in the hell brought you to my inbox? Was it because I shared memes that were risqué or posted stuff that had the words “fuck” (OMG) or “cunt” (I must be a whore), or because some of the posts were of a sexual nature? I enjoy smut talk and goofy assed memes about sex. Must mean I like to fuck married men. Makes complete sense. If this is your mentality, it’s no wonder you’re looking for some strange; your partners hate you because you’re idiots. Ridiculous. You all are ridiculous. I blog. I discuss sex all the time. I also discuss poop, farts, shopping, my kid, and a myriad of subjects. Do these posts define me? No. They don’t. They are sarcastic and exaggerated posts for entertainment purposes. Period. If any of you actually had taken the time in the 10+ years that I knew most of you, you’d know this. You didn’t. You suck. You suck as human beings and you suck at being men.

Not one of you asked me out. Like on a date. It was all about sex or what you could get from me. I wasn’t even good enough for an affair. Just some whore you could hit once and hide away from your seemingly normal lives.

I began to link numerous blog posts from my page to my personal feed about cheaters, what I wanted from a man, and anything I could find that might explain to you that I was not going to be your fuck-buddy. Not then, not now, not ever. This was the passive-aggressive approach but I didn’t have the time or energy to write each of you individually (yes, there were that many of you). Not to mention, it
was publicity for my blog. Can’t blame a chick for marketing. I also figured that if you were messaging me, you were probably harassing the shit out of other women on your friends list. My giant head isn’t so overgrown that I believed I was some “special” whore. The purpose of this letter is not to “out you” or get you into trouble. It is to try and explain how your behavior made me feel. Like shit. That’s how I felt. That’s how I feel. Like a useless waste of a human being. You thought I was weak and would cave and perform sexual favors because you showed me some attention. You thought wrong. I felt disrespected. I felt embarrassed. I felt ashamed. I felt sad. I felt confused. I still feel all those things. Add mad to those things and that's what I feel now. Mad that I allowed a bunch of losers, posing as men, to make me feel that way. Never once did I feel lucky or excited because I special enough to receive your messages. I wasn't impressed. I laughed about it with my friends. I joked that you were sick, desperate losers. All the while, I felt I was being sexually assaulted without any physical contact.

I continued conversations with some of you because I couldn’t even believe it was happening. I had to keep responding because I couldn’t fathom that it was real. I’m a writer at heart so I also knew that one day I’d use your sad, tired pick-up lines disguised as messages, in a writing. I didn’t think that the day would come so soon but I needed to get this out there. For me, and for all of the other women that you deem your personal booty message whores.

In closing, if any of you half-wit fucks are actually able to read this – FUCK YOU. Fuck you for making me feel like a piece of shit. Fuck you for all the other women you made feel like shit. Fuck you for not having enough respect for your wife or significant other to be a MAN. And just fuck you.

Sincerely,

A stand-up bitch who isn’t taking your bullshit

PPB aka The Precious Princess - The Princess is a twice divorced, recently dumped, recently unemployed, self-proclaimed member of the mentally hilarious. She has been referred to as living under a rock stocked with vodka and anger. Her 12 year old “Mini”, who is carbon copy of the Princess, is often the subject of blogs, and Facebook posts. In addition, she writes about dating, the dumbness of boys, life after 40, and shares stories from Bananaland which is both her past and current residence.  She is the owner/sole admin for the Facebook page Precious Princess's Guide to Bananaland where she is famous for her rants and her blunt, honest, and sarcastic look at life.  She blogs both extremely funny and all-the-feels posts at Princess Bananaland.  She hates people, kids, and karaoke. She uses all the swears and makes up dirty words.  Eventually when she’s done being sloth-like, she will write a book.  Be afraid.

1986 - I have found it

Picture it, Port Orange, a city about 4 miles South of Daytona Beach, FL.  The year was 1986.  The month, August.  I was 16 years old.  I'd had my drivers license for exactly 1 month.  My family had moved to Port Orange in June.  I was in a new city, a new driver, and on my way to a job that I'd had for only 2 weeks.

Now that you have the background, let me get to the nitty fucking gritty.  It was probably around 100 degrees with 150% humidity (If you've been to FL you know this to be true), it was pouring rain and I was tooling along in my fancy new-to-me, hand me down Chevy Chevette.   I was cool.  You know it.

I was sitting at a red light in the left hand lane, wipers going eleventy million mph, waiting to make my left turn to complete my 2 mile drive to work.  I make the turn, and whoa...what the shit?  The car began to slide up onto the 2 foot high median (We didn't have that shit in IL), and into oncoming traffic.  Well me being the awesome 16 year old, non experienced driver that I was, cut the wheel all-the-way to the right to avoid the oncoming traffic.  Awesome idea, right?  Right? Right?  Come on, you know it wasn't right.  I have 2 words for you - Florida  Ice.  Yes, some hillbilly Florida phenomenon that occurs during and after the rain.  Apparently this happens everywhere but in Florida it's worse because of the extreme temperatures.  The oil and other chemicals that have soaked into the concrete come up to the surface because science happens or some shit.  Whatever.  It made the roads extremely slippery.

New driver + New city + Slippery road

Know what happened next?  Can you guess?  I'll bet you can't.  As my car literally flung itself to the right after the cutting the wheel, it then went up over the sidewalk and right through the plate glass window of a drapery shop. Right through the window of a brick building.  Yes, the damn shop was open.  Yes, there were people inside.  No, nobody got hurt.  Those bitches ran fast and I was wearing my seat belt.  And here was the front end of my new-to-me Chevy Chevette jammed inside a store. Holy balls of fuck.

A whole bunch of witnesses came to check on me (I was a cute young blond girl) until the police arrived.  There was flurry of action and I was, well I was 16.  I didn't know what the fuck to do or what the fuck to say.  Finally, the police came and he walked over to me (I was still in the car) and asked how I was.  My response - "I have found it" - one of those weird family sayings we had that came from a movie and, no I don't remember which one.  Loosely, it meant the shit hit the fan and I found it.  Also, I do what I always do when I'm going to lose all control of my bodily functions, giggled like a bitch.  All I remember after that was me begging the cop not to call my Dad because he was going to chop me up into little pieces and bury in the backyard.  He was going to k i l l me. My giggles had turned to tears at this point. (Anything to avoid my Dad coming) Of course the cop didn't believe any of that shit and 5 minutes later...

My parents showed up.  Both of them.  My Dad walked over to the car and that big, scary, bastard, who I was terrified of, laughed his ass off.  He was crying because he was laughing so hard.  I was kinda pissed.  Here I was shitting myself and this fuck is laughing.  My mom was laughing too.  Even the cop was laughing at this point.  Dicks.  They were laughing at the dumb ass 16 year old girl who drove through a building.  Looking back it was really funny.  Nobody got hurt and shit happens.  My Dad told me that everybody had to have their first accident and he was glad mine was so awesome. So that.  I then reversed the car out of the building and drove my ass to work.  Yes, the Chevy Chevette that had driven through the building, was drivable.  And, yes, I went to work.  Why not? Wiped my tears, shook it off, and went to make my money.

When the dust (literally) had settled, I ended having to pay for 1/2 of the car repair which wasn't too bad.  It was mostly dumb stuff.  The building?  I got a letter about 4 months later saying that the building was supposed to have been condemned and closed and that owners had never complied with the city so I was not responsible for the repairs.  The store stayed open for a few years after that but was ultimately demolished about 10 years ago for some huge development that was supposed to be built (still hasn't happened).

So, yeah, this isn't even my most embarassing story.  Lesson - the Chevy Chevette could really take a beating.

Truth: A few years later when I was taking a defensive driving course (No, I didn't learn my lesson after that first accident) the instructor used my story as a crash example.  Yep.  I got to take a bow. I'm famous.  Famous for being an idiot.

PPB aka The Precious Princess - The Princess is a twice divorced, recently dumped, recently unemployed, self-proclaimed member of the mentally hilarious. She has been referred to as living under a rock stocked with vodka and anger. Her 12 year old “Mini”, who is carbon copy of the Princess, is often the subject of blogs, and Facebook posts. In addition, she writes about dating, the dumbness of boys, life after 40, and shares stories from Bananaland which is both her past and current residence.  She is the owner/sole admin for the Facebook page Precious Princess's Guide to Bananaland where she is famous for her rants and her blunt, honest, and sarcastic look at life.  She blogs both extremely funny and all-the-feels posts at Princess Bananaland.  She hates people, kids, and karaoke. She uses all the swears and makes up dirty words.  Eventually when she’s done being sloth-like, she will write a book.  Be afraid. 

I'm sorry - a 60 second drive-thru experience

To the guy behind me in the McDonalds drive-thru (Yes, I eat fast food.  I'm fat and poor, shut it), I'm sorry.   So many thoughts I had about you.  I'm sure you had no idea. I know and I'm sorry.

I was staring at you so hard in my rearview mirror that you could probably feel my eyes on you if you were paying attention. I'm sorry. You probably weren't.

I heard you first.  As you pulled up behind my car, I could hear the rumble of a worn engine.  I wasn't sure what to expect. I was thinking dumptruck or huge piece of machinery. A loud piece of machinery.  The noise was so loud that I briefly forgot about my sausage mcmuffin and yogurt parfait.  Very briefly - I'm sorry.   I looked up and there you were in your big old monstrosity of a pickup truck.  The truck was older than I had originally thought. Big and rumbly.  Probably a work truck.

After sizing up the truck, I spotted you in the drivers seat.  You were probably 50-ish from what I could tell.  It was morning, and I was half asleep so I could be off a few years either way. I'm sorry.  Your hair was gray and white, and very sheepdogish.  Thick and full and falling over your eyes.  You had a full beard.  You looked comfortable and worn like an old flannel shirt.  I think you were wearing a flannel shirt.  I like flannel. I liked how you looked.  A lot.  Mostly why I kept staring.  I'm sorry.

My vivid imagination took over at that point and I started creating your backstory. I'm sorry.  In my head.  As a self-proclaimed professional people watcher (this is a thing), I do this a bunch.  It passes time.  I'm alone a lot.  Never bored or lonely, just alone.  So I imagine. I imagine things about unsuspecting people such as yourself.  Because I liked the way you looked, I immediately made up a story that you were married and unhappy.  That you had a plain-jane wife and she didn't need you or get you.  That you were bored.  That you sat in front of the television night after night, not speaking. That she didn't appreciate you like I would.  I'm sorry.  I changed the story.  You and the wife were madly in love and you have date night every Thursday, you laugh every night at silly shows that you both enjoy, and that you were in the drive-thru to get her coffee and bring it to her in bed because she was off work and you love her. You love her so very much that you were going to be late to your own job just to make her smile.  I really didn't like that scenario because you were cute but I thought it. Then I scratched it.  I'm sorry.

I then began thinking that it would be great if while we were pulling out of the drive-thru that you summoned me over, told me I was beautiful (Sans make-up and pajama clad), and said that you just had to meet me.  Yep.  I thought all of that.  I'm a dreamer.  I can't help it.  Of course you asked me out, we fell in love, and had a great story to tell all of our friends and family.

All of that happened in 60 seconds.  I forgot to mention - I'm an asshole romantic.  I'm sorry. 

#PPB
#Originalwhore

PPB aka The Precious Princess - The Princess is a twice divorced, recently dumped, recently unemployed, self-proclaimed member of the mentally hilarious. She has been referred to as living under a rock stocked with vodka and anger. Her 12 year old “Mini”, who is carbon copy of the Princess, is often the subject of blogs, and Facebook posts. In addition, she writes about dating, the dumbness of boys, life after 40, and shares stories from Bananaland which is both her past and current residence.  She is the owner/sole admin for the Facebook page Precious Princess's Guide to Bananaland where she is famous for her rants and her blunt, honest, and sarcastic look at life.  She blogs both extremely funny and all-the-feels posts at Princess Bananaland.  She hates people, kids, and karaoke. She uses all the swears and makes up dirty words.  Eventually when she’s done being sloth-like, she will write a book.  Be afraid.

Bunker Punk Tour

So apparently while I was napping, the Bunker Punks decided to go on tour.  All kindsa fuckery goes on when I'm napping.  But, I'm not being left behind (because I'm afraid of the dark) so here goes...

They gave me questions to answer and well you know how well I follow directions.  I'll do my best, mmmmkay?

What is your most prized possession?
In all honesty, I'm not really big on possessions.  Don't get me wrong, I love my stuff.  I love my flat iron, my make-up, my bed, my socks, my purses, my 25 pair of sunglasses, all of my perfume, my pots & pans, my kitchen utensils (what?  I LOVE to cook) but as far one prized possession?  Let me think. Okay, sounds pretty cliche' but it's a ring.  A jade ring that was my maternal grandmother's.  It's absolutely huge and hideous and I don't have a pic because it's locked away but it's antique, green, worth a fuckton of bucks, and my grandmother wore it every single day when she was alive.  I always thought it was the ugliest thing but she never took off and it reminds of her.  So that.

How do you unwind after a long day?
I haven't had a long day in quite some time.  Out of work, and contagious disease have been my past two months.  But this about sums it up...

What is one song that has followed you throughout your whole life?
This is really hard for me.  The hardest question here.  I don't have one song.  I have like 687 songs. Really.  Music is important to me.  I guess one song that really hits home with me is by a band I don't even particularly love but the song hits home.  You can't always get what you want - Rolling Stones.

If you could give one piece of advice to new bloggers in your field, what would it be?
Write for you.  Write from the heart.  #fuckallthepeople. 

Now that you're famous, we need a quote from you.

Love ya...Mean it - PPB

Commercials

Being that I didn't have regular television for almost a year I saw no commercials.  Since moving in with the broken mommy (who has all the channels) I have gotten reacquainted with commercials. I am obsessed.  I love them.  I hate them.  I have strong opinions about them.  I decided to write about them.

 Just sharing a few of my favorites and not so favorites...

I'm going to start with a fairly old (2001) commercial because it encompasses my entire view on life and stuff: If I lick it; it's mine.  Remember  the Volkswagen commercial where the dude licks the car handle to claim it?  Totally awesome.  I think I like it so much because it brings out the kid in me. I miss being able to lick stuff and calling "MINE".  Shit, as adults we are so disillusioned that we are suspect if something hasn't been licked.  Anyhow...  Link to Lick.  You should watch.  It's just perfect.  Nailed it.

Mucinex - if you haven't been "lucky" enough to see one of these gems, you need to click HERE.  The link I provided is one of the older not-so-nasty phlegmmercials.  <----Like my new word?  There are a slew of them and each one is more disgusting than the last.  They aren't so fucking awful if you pretend that the snotman is just a green goblin or something, however, once you remember that it's a boog?  It's gone.  I heart you Mucinex but these commercials?  2 thumbs and 8 fingers DOWN.

Uncle Ben's - I have mentioned this before on my Facebook page but I'm bringing here again because it needs to be told.  I love this commercial.  I love that Uncle Ben's is trying its damnedest to send a positive message; cooking with the kids BUT...the commercial is bit over the top with the whole song and chill thing going on.  Click HERE to see what I'm talking about.  Over all, I think they did a fine job of combining the animation and very kid friendly version of a grown-up (read: old) song.  I like it.  No matter how many times I've heard it I always look at the tv when it plays.  That's what they want, right?

The Glade candle song commercial - Holy BALLS, I love this song, I love his voice but there is NO WAY I will buy a Glade candle because of it.  Hopefully, Glade was just going for the whole "Merry Christmas" thing because there is no damn way a candle deserves this awesomeness.  In all honesty, I had to search by the song when I first looked to find this commercial.  I had no idea who the sponsor was.  For great song snippet click the Pretty Song Link.  Sorry Glade.

This year's K-Mart commercials.  I love, love, love the dudes playing their bellies.  As usual, K-Mart has kicked ass with the holiday commercials featuring their Joe Boxer line: Link to the Boys.  I was a little less impressed with the chick version.  They still tried to keep it humorous but they had to throw that "hot chick" bullshit in the mix.  I like their commercials every year because they go right for the funny.  I didn't hate it, just wasn't as impressed.  Also, if there's going to be a commercial featuring dancing; the dancing should be good.  Still didn't suck, just wasn't my favorite.  Link to the Girls.

The insurance companies have totally kicked ass over the last few years.  They are like the huge commercial winners.  One of my all-time favorites is "No Mas Pantalones" with Flo from Progressive and a huge favorite of my mine is "Jake.  From State Farm". Both of these ads still makes me laugh every single time.  I'm also madly in love with quite fond of  the Geico Gecko *swoons over the accent* and I really wish they would do more commercials with him because he's my boyfriend.  I love his dry, sarcastic sense of humor and I have I mentioned the accent? But wait...theGeico "Icky" commercial makes me giggle like a bitch.  If you have not seen this?  Please CLICK HERE because I laugh so hard I pee.  My new favorites in the insurance category are the Liberty Mutual commercials.  Simple but to the point.  Also, I always know it's a Liberty Mutual ad.  That IS the point of a commercial right? Here's a LINK to my favorite Liberty Mutual ad.  I love this guy.  He's "every guy", no?  I dig his voice too.  Yep, I'm a freak.  I really like all of their new ads though EXCEPT THIS ONE.  Nobody names a car Brad.  Sorry, not buying it.  Anyhow, if I could afford it?  I'd buy Liberty Mutual Insurance just cause I like their commercials.  Sorry, Flo.

We all have those ear worm jingles or phrases from commercials that stay with us forever.  A few of mine are:  "I wish I were an Oscar Mayer Wiener", "I've got a Butternut Mom", "Hot dogs, Armour Hot dogs - the dogs kids love to bite", "clap on, clap off, the clapper", "Ace is the place with the helpful hardware MAN" (that's how I remember it), and so many more.  You're welcome for those.  I'm cool like that.  I'll tell you another secret.  I sometimes watch the ads on YouTube.  Yep, I'm that girl.

From commercial hell...PPB

Christmas Letter 2014

To all my friends and family at Christmas...

A lot has changed in a year.  Like...a lot.

Let me see...where to start...

Filed Bankruptcy, moved in with mom, got rid of 241lbs of dead weight, have no real source of income, have a snotty ass kid, a broken ass mommy, and I'm happier than I've ever been.  Let me explain...

My Bankruptcy was final in February of this year.  It was a huge relief.  I was in so much debt from divorce, and working 2 jobs had done nothing for me.  So BK it was.  I still have no credit cards...I'm scared.  It's not a bad thing.

Moved in with mom at the end of May.  (This was planned for over a year so don't freak out, mmmkay?)  So far; so good.  She's annoying as fuck but aren't all moms?  Since she broke the shit out of her ankle and is immobile for 3 months, she's less annoying...haha, but no, REALLY.  She's healing well and drives her wheelchair like a bat out of hell.  It's awesome.  I can always tell where she is when we hit the stores.  I just have to listen for the "hey lady!".  She's always either in someones way, crashing into a display, going too fast, going too slow...something.

The lying scumbag that I wasted 3.5 years of my life with (I won't even bother to mention his name; it's not worth it) decided that we should no longer be a couple.  This turned out to be one of the best things that has ever happened to me.  It's amazing how your eyes are opened once someone isn't covering them.  And, that's all I'll say about that.  For now.  (You know there's another blog post in there, right?)

In August, I quit my job after 14 years.  That place sucked giant horse cock.  It really did.  Maybe it was mid-life crisis, maybe I was just a mess...who knows?  I cannot describe the feeling of not going back to that negative hell hole of a place filled with life-sucking, backstabbing, liars.  Phew...that was a huge relief.  I am currently unemployed as I had a job for a couple of months and it was becoming very similar to the horse cock sucking job so I'm no longer there.  Due to some investments that I was able to cash in, unemployment  (thank you, government) and mommy, I am able to live for a few months while searching for a job that doesn't suck.  <---- I'm hoping that job exists. Tell me that it does.  Please.

Thanks to numerous friends and my fantastic (although foul-mouthed and cranky) daughter, this year of change has been absolutely amazing!  Took a few short trips: Cedar Key, Crystal River, Orlando (Link to Orlando trip post), St Augustine, and I have a trip to Savannah planned toward the end of the month.  I was also able to spend some great quality time with the Mini, the Broken Mommy, and my friends.  It has been excellent.  I am thankful beyond belief.

The Mini started middle school (Jr high) this year and it scared the shit out of me.  In that bad awful way that I wanted to be her life sized backpack.  Besides the increasingly shitty attitude which I'm told will go away around the age of 25...all is well.  She's actually doing better than she did in elementary school.  I'm still freaked out most of the time but I'll tell you that after much motherly snooping I know this:  the kid knows how to spell "fuck" and that my friends, is important.

As usual I'm excited for Christmas because...I LOVE IT!  Looking forward to a visit from my baby sister too.  It will be a FourVag Christmas in Bananaland.  Keep one eye on your news.  Ya' know, just in case.

Smoochydoodles to you and yours.  Have a kickass Christmas and here's to Santa not pissing in your Wheaties.

PPB