creepy. date. night.

Okay, so creepy date night.  I talk a bunch about creepy date night.  Well, every Tuesday anyway.  It all started like this...

  

Once upon a time, I worked a second job in a package store.  Also known as...liquor store, packy, the package, cigarette store or whatever they call in your neck of the woods.  (That's about as country as I'll ever get, like it.) 

Now this particular package was attached to a bar.  I very shall we say, sleazy little neighborhood joint.  You know the kind.  The kind with cheap drinks, greasy, delicious food, and odd cast of characters.  This particular establishment was in business for a long time and housed a unique (euphemism, fuckers) group of locals.  Or as we called them "diehards". Great joint.  Anyway, where the fuck was I?  butterfly..................

*A few truths about this bar*

You're feet ALWAYS stuck to the floor

There was ALWAYS someone way more fucked up than you sitting at the bar.  Or at a table. Or standing.  Or shooting pool.  Or on their way.

If you had a vagina, a free drink was guaranteed.  Somehow.  (see above)

The bar bathrooms were cleaner than the employee bathrooms (this was total bullshit)

Many customers were missing body parts (i.e.: teeth)

The food?  THE. BEST. 

The drinks?  THE STRONGEST. 

Back to the story.  So, I worked at this place on Wednesday nights (Sat mornings, too).  The SAB worked during the day (like me) and at night, we had the Mini.   Except Wednesday.  My momma, the Drunken Queen of Bananaland, kept the Mini on Wednesday cause' I worked, sooooooooooo...the SAB would do some stuff around the Bananaland homestead and then he'd come and hang with me.  In the package.  Connected to the bar. 

  

Sounds weird, right?  Shut up. Like you haven't done weird stuff.  It gets weirder.  Yep.  Sometimes the SAB would bring his daughter up to visit. (not in the bar, freaks)  She was 16, wtf?  We sold candy and chips and soda and shit. 

Fast forward several months later...now we'd added friends to the mix.  Every Wednesday a bevy of friends would show up.  To drink, hear the band, or sing the DREADED karaoke.  I fucking hate karaoke.  Oh, and to see me.  Yay.  And, guess what else?  Being there a bar was attached?  There were more friends inside the bar.  And drinks inside the bar. 

So now we have me, the SAB, lots and lots of friends, the 16 yoa daughter and the craziest drunkass customers ever.  This was our only night alone.  We spent it in the most vile, crowded, smelly, crazy place ever.  Romantic as fuck. And, it was awesome. So it was...CREEPY DATE NIGHT.

 

And, here we are 2+ years later.  I no longer work at the package.  The bar has since closed.  The Drunken Queen has switched her Mini night to Tuesday BUT we still have creepy date night.  Even now, when the SAB is working til 10pm.  I sit here and think about Fireball shots, Mich Ultra and dirty dudes with no teeth while I wait for the SAB to arrive. 

THE END.



The bathroom thing...

Let me begin with this - I abhor wasting time outo use the bathroom.  So many battles have been conquered in my lifetime.  Cures, inventions, life changing events.  Why in the fuck am I still pulling down my pants, sitting on a hunk of ceramic, and wiping my ass with the thinnest paper ever created? Someone dropped the ball.  Seriously.



In addition to my hatred of having to use the potty at all, I have some weird bathroom issues.  Wait and see...

I prefer to do my business with the door open.  I just do.  First of all, I have a very sensitive nose.   It gets all hot and stinky and there is no spray that kills that smell.  I stopped pretending long ago.  It just smells like poop and Glade.  Also, I like to know what's going on outside the bathroom.  I'm not a big fan of surprises.  I don't want a burglar/rapist/murderer to break in without my knowledge because I was all locked up in the potty with the fan running.  I'd much rather hear someone coming to get my ass. I have zero interest in spending a solid 8 minutes or so squeezing out my business just to fling open the door to my killer.  That would just suck.  I need to hear stuff.  That being said, I prefer not to be burgled, raped, or murdered but I'm still keeping the door open. In an effort to keep my family, I do close the door when people are home (boo).  


Every good potty story needs a clogs and I am the Princess of cloggage.  Really.  There is no real reason for why I must build a huge potty paper poo puff.  I just do.  I have no bizarre memories of a toilet paper attack or anything.  I mean I have regular bathroom memories like everyone else (what? you don't?  pffffttt).  Anyway, I suck at public bathrooms and every bathroom that isn't my own because of my clog abilities.  It doesn't help that I poop 10 times a day.  I have no gall bladder. Food goes in, food goes out, and my giant toilet paper mummy begins.  Let me just say that I've met the plumber dude in every hotel I've ever stayed in.   My most famous clog happened was in Key West, circa 1995.  It involved the toilet and the bathtub.  Use your imagination. 



I would SO use all of this.



Flushing is another dealio I have issues with.  I courtesy flush whether I'm out and about or enjoying the comfort of my own private throne.  I absolutely do not understand the bumble-fucks who don't. It's something we should all do.  I flush the second my ass hits the porcelain.  Yeah, I do.  Nobody (including me) hears my plop or splash, and the smell is killed at the same time.  The way I see it, every bathroom trip is a minimum two-flush.  The aforementioned, and the one after you wash your hands.  This second flush ensures no floaties.  Two is my minimum flush number.  Often times it's more.  Whatever it takes.

I leave you with my personal potty tips before I leave... I'm just gonna cover my basics.  First, and foremost, cleanliness.  I will shit my pants before I sit on a nastyass pooper.  Any of you remember the bathroom in the movie "Trainspotting"?  Fuckinggag.  I won't do it.  I'm physically incapable. Smell is also huge.  I mean, come on.  If it smells like toddlers painted the walls with the insides of their diapers after supping on peas?  No.  My third and final public potty rule - I will not, I absolutely refuse, and I will stomp my feet & holler before I use the paper that's stacked on top of the roll or on the toilet tank.  This is bad.  Using this paper could give me the bad heebie-jeebie disease.  This is the paper that has been touched by every individual before me.  It is also the roll that has done just that; rolled onto the ever so filthy bathroom floor.  It is not to be used.  Ever.

Wait!  I totally forgot! I have a request.  Please do not leave your urine on the seat.  I will chase you down.  Don't be a dick.


PPB aka The Precious Princess - The Princess is a twice divorced, recently single, 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.  Until she changes her mind. Be afraid. 

The Electronics Debacle of 2013

Electronics-

 

I am tired as shit of electronics. They rule my life. Right now, I am completely disgusted with myself. The internet at the house is effed up crazy time. My “smartphone” is being a complete asshole. My electric can opener broke into pieces. WTF.

And, I'm not complaining. Really. This is completely stupid. This should not happen. I should not be ruled by a convenience. I am the first one to admit it. And I fight it. Every day. And I am ashamed. Because I lose.

Think they still make these?

Cell phones? Areyoufuckingkiddingme? The giant “smartphone” that I am now attached? Never leaves my side. Some nights? It's in the bed with me. I refuse to let the Mini get a cell phone. This is real. She is 10. I absolutely cannot fall prey to this monster called Ineedtobeintouchwithyoueverysecondofeveryday. I won't do it. I actually went and got a home phone. Can you imagine? A home phone so that I can practice leaving the Mini by herself (gotta practice now cause' ya' know at 12 they become all grown and no longer qualify for after school care) and she has a way to reach me. See? I'm trying. But. I. Can't. Fight. It.


  My “smartphone”? Whatever. The POS shuts itself down about 5 times a day. I've had it replaced. I've done extra updates through the company. Still? It shut downs. It makes me cry. (see how pathetic this is?) Oh shit...a butterfly – my neighbor is trying to get his dog to pee....arrgggghhh* In addition, my FB app? Oh boy. It shuts down (and, yes, I send a report EVERY time) about 10-15 times a day. Now, to put this all in perspective? I spend 45 hours a week (working) in a basement. The basement has no reception. I have no wii-fii. The ONLY way I can blog, FB or have any connection with the outside world? My cell phone. It's a lifeline. It gives me the weather (no windows in the basement), it allows me to communicate with friends, family. You KNOW what it does. It's awesome. Until it isn't. 

I so wish for the balls do to this...

 

 

The internet...This whole wireless high speed internet dealie? I call BULLSHIT. I am relegated to only 2 internet companies. The both? Blow. Right now with the internet being down? I cannot watch my newest most favoritest show “Weeds”. I mean wtf? Who cannot love this show? The balls on this chick are hugemongous. Wish I had half. Yeah, she's selling weed it's illegal. It's the metaphor, ya know? Take some risks. Life is good. Anyway, this no internet inconvenience? BULLSHITTY. Also, the weekends are usually the only time I can get on the laptop and blog and get work done on my FaceBook page. It's a travesty. Really.

 

I mean, really?  I'll be subjected to living my life like this...wtf?

 

 

Well, now that you know what a hugely spoiled whiny rag I am? Will ya' stick around? It's gonna get better. It must. 



*Update - The cable dude came and fixed the internet.  Keep yer fingers crossed and yer eyes on the news (just in case, shit happens). 

Standardized Testing is Bullshit

Standardized Testing? I call bullshit


Okay, so next week here in the good ole’ sunshine state? Is FCAT testing. FCAT stands for Florida Comprehensive Assessment Test. OR? Fuckedup Crap-Ass Tool. (see? I make up acronyms too. Multi-talented, I rock). Do you know what this means? This means for the next week and half (yes, they start the torture early) I have to deal with a completely wigged out, paranoid 10 year old. This would be completely awesome if I was the cause of the aforementioned wiggyness and I could sit back and laugh. But, nooooo, the school takes away all the damn fun. The teachers & staff drive the children to the brink of insanity because if they do not pass this series of ridiculous tests? They will FAIL. FAIL, FAIL, FAIL. (this, btw, makes no sense cause’ we have that whole “no child left behind things".


In addition to making the children insane? This year, they have given the parents some tasks. Areyoufuckingkiddingme? Like seriously? I don’t have enough dumb shit in my life. I need to be harassed by educators. But, of course I’m going to be the most bestest mommy ever and follow the instructions put before me…

 My 1st, 2nd and 3rd thoughts? Phhhhhhhhtttt. What kinda parents do they think we are. And then? Realization. There ARE some clueless motherfuckers out there. Anyway, yay, we have an assignment. And being the OCD crazy mom that I am, I got right to work.  See below...
 

I did a good job, right? I know stuff. I’m sure these notes will be very encouraging. Or, my 10 year old Mini-me will get kicked out of school. It could go either way. These people have no sense of humor. In addition, I will make sure I boil the eye of newt prior to school on these days so the Mini will get a nice hot breakfast with plenty of protein. Not sure what to do about the whole bed EARLY thing. She goes to bed plenty early but I have no idea when she actually falls asleep. Should I put in a camera? Sit by the bed? I’ll be nail biting until I get this all figured out. (see? The stress is spreading)


In closing, (yes, finally) I love my child beyond belief. She is the sole reason I exist. I honestly feel sorry for her during these terrible FCAT times. I really do. She does get very nervous and actually kinda creepy. But, in the end? She's gonna have to suck it up buttercup. I had to do this crap and I lived. I turned out just fine. She will too. See?

 All is well in Bananaland.

 

I hate kids...

I hate kids…

 

Conjures up a buncha ideas, doesn’t it?  Makes you think I’m a bad, bad person, doesn’t it?  Don’t be judgey. 

 

I don’t hate kids for like the real reasons one would hate kids.  You know?  Sticky hands, stinky feet, they eat everything in the damn house, they cost a fortune, they lose every fucking thing you’ve ever bought them, they don’t listen, they talk shit, they argue, they cry, they take up all your time and the list goes on (I’m a busy woman, I don’t have all day here).  I hate kids simply…because I hate ‘em.  Let me splain.  (Yep, I watched I Love Lucy, too)

 

Here goes…one day the Sexy American boyfriend and I were relaxing and watching our two lovely kidlets play (ie – hit each other with sticks) and we looked at each other and stated…”I hate kids”.  (I knew right then he was the ONE)  Our kids (below) Precious, ain’t they?  All molesty on Elvis and stuff.  Damn kids.  See?  See what I'm talkin' about here?

 

 

   

Okay, so if that’s not enough?  Kids?  They want us to play with them and do stuff for them and they talk. They talk a lot.  Like, they never stop.  And, they beg us for stuff.  Are you with me on this yet?  No? Okay, keep reading.  I'll get you, I will.  Promise.  I know stuff.

  

My beautiful (now 10 year old) Mini has been a dancer (to the tune of $4,000/year), a gymnast (for like 30 minutes a day one month), and a cheerleader (for which I had to travel the state and spend $ that I didn’t have).  Currently, she’s a Girl Scout.  This is pretty good, cause’ it’s cheap and I don’t have to attend meetings. They actually asked if I wanted to attend a meeting once. My answer “hell no, I hate kids”.  I mean, aren’t we sending these kids to activities to get away from them for a minute?  DAYUM.  I do, however, attend all the fun field trips and the leaders love me.  I’m mean as hell mom and all those damn kids listen when I’m around.  I’ll take it, fuckyouverymuch.  See the Mini below.  If this doesn't get ya?  Nothin' will.

  

 

 

So, do you get it yet?  Why I hate kids?  Come on…it’s not that hard.  I’m fucking jealous.  With every ounce of my being, I am completely and utterly jealous.  Kids get to do whatever the hell they want, whenever they want and how they want (this is awesomeness). You’re getting it now, right?  I don’t hate the actual kids at all (in fact, I love them and I wanna be them).  I hate that I am not one. Don’t mistake this for wanting to younger, no, that’s not it.  Free of responsibilities.  Able to hit my friend with a stick and not be sued.  And, totally molest Elvis (which I did, of course, duh, I'm not dead) Ahhhh, the life.   And, if you don’t “hate kids” too?  You’re a liar.  You know it.  I mean really?  Look at this damn kid.  He digs it the most. (Stay outta the sink guys, the police and fire departments are busy)

And, now you when you see "I hate kids..." on my FB page or in future blogposts?  You can say "Oh, cool, I hate kids too"

Fatshittyattitude turned Comfortandconfidence

It has come to my attention that there are people out there who don't know they're awesome.  And, of course I had to say some shit about it...

I am awesome.  I know this.  It took me 40 (well, actually 39) long years to figure it out.  But?  I did. 

(some) Reasons I am awesome (let's be real, I couldn't take the entire blog):

My sense of humor is fantabulous (shut up, I know it's not a word - you'll have to get used to it)
I make up words
I'm cute as hell
I know my shortcomings (this is huge and the main reason I have no pets)
My kid is pretty damn funny (and alive - that so counts)
I hate people
My shower of love is hugemongous (if you're deserving)
I know stuff but I'm not a "knowitall"
I say fuck a lot
I can cook like a motherfucker
I have ADD but every day is a new day, right?
I can't walk around the house in barefeet (ewwwww)
I'm totally OCD (which makes my shit way overorganized)
I'm crafty as hell and make or recreate almost anything
I love to clean (really, it goes with OCD)
I forgive and (NEVER) forget

So, like I said before - I am awesome.  Awesome is all relative, no?  I am also this - overweight, fat, chubby...whatever you want to call it.  I'm that.  For some reason, people (mostly women, but the boys are not innocent) seem to think they are less of a person because of this.  I'm here to tell you ...

                                                              I CALL BULLSHIT.

In my now almost 43 years (damn I'm old), I have been both on thin side and the fat side.  (I would insert a pic here, but my hard-drive crashed last week and alas, I have no pic).  YES, there are the definite health bennies of being all thin and working out (no, I didn't lose weight to look good, I actually went for the health thing - working out, etc...).  That goes without saying.  That is common sense.  What I'm talking about here?  Is what gets all fucked up in your brain because you aren't a size insert whatever you desire here. 

I'm not gonna go all looneytunes and act like I know shit, cause well, I can't get in your head.  I will, however, tell you MY shit. 

After the whole being cheated on, getting dumped, being treated like shit (by friends, family, men, coworkers) and the myriad of shit that happens to EVERYBODY (not just fat people)...I learned that I am awesome.  None of those things were happening to me because I was overweight.  DUH.  They were happening because I was letting them happen.  I was weak.  I felt inferior.  And...THAT was bullshit.  After losing weight for the gazillionth time (I was around 37), I realized nothing changed.  At this point?  I was old enough to realize, hmmmmm....it's not the weight.  Maybe it was never the weight?  WOW.  Whatafuckingdiscovery! 

In all seriousness, this did happen.  I was enlightened.  I realized that I was awesome.  And, worth it.  And, did not deserve anything less than I what I wanted/needed/deserved.  It was amazing.  I invite each of you who suffers from fatshittyattitude to join me. Do some soul searching.  Learn what makes you awesome and embrace it.  No, I'm not gonna have a come to Jeezus meeting or anything so you don't have to run away screaming. 

What I got? Comfort.  I am comfortable with myself.  Sure, I look back at pics and say "that was a hot bitch".  Know what?  I'm still hot.  I'm confident.  Confidence exudes hotness (you have no idea). I am positive I would NOT have found the love of my life (the good ole SAB) if I wasn't comfy with myself.  I am the self proclaimed "Happiest Bitch Alive".  I can strut into a room and know (in my head) I AM THE MOST AWESOME PERSON HERE.  That, my friends?  Is what counts. 

ps - once you learn all that above stuff?  sex is like the best it has ever been...just sayin ;)

 

What Facebook did for me...

Okay, so I chose this subject to be the point of my very first blogpost.  Yes, for a few reasons.

1 - You get a lil background into Bananaland as it currently exists
2-  You'll get to see how awesomely brilliant I am
3-  My sick sense of humor (and well, everything) will be revealed right from the get go
4-  Single moms need love too


I got divorced in 2009 (yay) and until the Winter of 2010, I was desperately, insanely, whorely (I know it isn't a word, it fits, shut it) SINGLE.  Yes, I was the epitome of" the divorcee'."  I did the loser-y meetguysyourmomknows, met friends of friends, dated people I already knew (there is a whole other reason you never dated these people) and had an outstanding number of 1night stands (my choice, guys can do it...why can't I?). 

Somewhere in mid 2010, I made a decision.  No "dating" like seriously. I'm gonna go on dates, have dinner, have drinks enjoy the single life, meet people and "practice" (I was married for 12 years, come on) my dating skills.  I joined a fancy (ie - free) dating website and proceeded to date (not bang - date.  let's be clear) my way through the state.  Internet dating?  Everyone should do it.  If it isn't on your bucket list?  Add it.  It's hysterical.  (If you're single of course - they have other websites for scum like you)

Sometime in December, 2011 ...  I had "met" or become friendly with a few lovely gentlemen.  I had been on dates with most and had continued to correspond with all.  Now this?  This made me feel kinda like that whorey thing.  Soooo, had to get my OCD on.  I created a spreadsheet.  Do's, dont's, likes, dislikes, pluses, minuses, you know?  All the info.  In a spreadsheet.  So I could compare.  (shut up, you'd have done it if you were in the same situation and were insane like me).  Anyhow, spreadsheet and all moved into the new year, 2011.

On January 3rd of 2011, I received a FB friend request from a dude I didn't know. (and as whorey as I may have been?  I didn't accept friend requests from peeps I didn't know.  I didn't say it made sense, keep reading)  He looked familiar and soon I found out why.  A month or so prior, he had added me to his favorites on that ole internet dating site, but never contacted me.  This intrigued me.  I'm fucking cute. Why wouldn't he contact me?  This was bullshit.  Youcantalwaysgetwhatyouwant syndrome happened.   Although his profile pic looked like that of a creepy pedophile?  His face said "I don't touch little boys, I just don't know how to dress, take a picture or use a comb".  Also, his profile stated he was 6'3" (which by the way...total lie.  he's 6'2") and I dig the shit out of a tall drink o' water.  So, anyway, we had 2 mutual friends on FB (who didn't know each other either) so I said wtf?  I accepted his request.  From that moment...that stalker ass bitch never left me alone.  I checked with both FB friends.  One knew his ex and the other?  Went to high school with him.  (more on that later...)

3 days later, we met in person (because he conned me into breaking a date with one of my spreadsheet boys and...I'm easy.  See "whorey" above).  We met in a empty ass bar that really sucked and still? Awesome.  It was pouring down rain and a Wednesday night and still?  Awesome. And, my whole life changed.  Our whole life changed.  So, notthepedophile made the spreadsheet.  It took about a week.  I deleted the spreadsheet.  Made the phone calls to the other spreadsheet boys (cause' I'm not a douche, man) and settled down with this dude. This FB dude. The winner of the spreadsheet diaries.  LMAO

2.25 years later...Me and the FB dude?  We are still together.  He is now my SAB (sexy American boyfriend) and that is how he will be referred to in my blog posts on this site and on my FB page.  Shortly after meeting, the SAB and I found out we went to the same High School.  Even graduated the same year.  1988.  Yes, we are old.  We knew most of the same people.  We just never met.  Even through the years we hung out at the same places, worked next door to each other and lived close by.  Still.  Never met.  It was like a "When Harry met Sally" life.  Me and the SAB?  We rock like butter, baby.  Butter on a roll.  FB did us good.  Real good. 

In June of 2014, the FB helped me again.  After 3.5 with the SAB, I learned that he was a fake, a fraud, a scumbag, and a molester of women, men, and all the people.  All through Facebook.  So thanks again, FB...YOU ROCK.

So anyway, that's a piece of the puzzle (and btw, I could have written like 6 blog posts out of this one).  There are so many more pieces.  I hope you'll stick around and gather them.