I am not jealous of Jennifer Garner. I’m not. It’s absurd to suggest such a thing, because it couldn’t possibly be any further from the truth. But, when I get into the meat of this post, you may be tempted to think I am just some jealous wife whose husband jerks off to Alias once a week.

Well, frankly, what my husband does with his free time is nobody’s business but his own. I mean, if he likes to discover and dust off his Rambaldi artifact, I take no issue with that. It’s his artifact after all.

Nonetheless, I fear my motives in posting this will be questioned, so it may be necessary prove right from the start that I have no reason whatsoever to be envious of What’s Her Name. Therefore, I shall be more than happy to compare and contrast our lives for you.

Jennifer and I have a lot in common really:

• As you may know, Jennifer Garner has a popular television series with millions of regular viewers.
  I, on the other hand, have a wildly unpopular weblog, and I get called a commie by some troll about once a week.
• Jennifer Garner is paid $150,000 per lousy rotten crappy stupid episode of Alias.
  I, however, found a quarter a couple of months ago. It had some gunk on it, but I washed it off.
• Jennifer Garner got to do voice overs for a video game.
  Some of you might say that I am way too old to be playing video games, and yet the only way you bastards will get my Playstation 2 away from me will be to pry it from my cold dead hands.
• Jennifer Garner has made several movies.
  I like watching movies.
• Jennifer Garner has a hot body.
  I have a great personality.

Now that I have demonstrated beyond a shadow of a doubt that a classy chick such as myself could never be jealous of such a loser, we can move on.

Yet Jennifer Garner does have a certain acting formula that seems to have gotten her pretty far in show biz. So, in case a few of you have the acting bug as well, I’m going to use this post to educate you on her methodology.

For this exercise, you will be the actress and I will be the director. I’ll give you the setup for the scene, and your job will be to figure out what expression or emotions you should convey.

To simplify things for all of us, I’ll make it a multiple choice quiz.

1. Your father has been beheaded right before your eyes, his blood spraying all over you at close range. You’re tied up and helpless and covered in gore. How do you react?

A. I scream in horror and vow revenge.

B. I’m slowly wrenching myself free of the ropes. I can’t let the terror of this incident sink in or I’m as good as dead. But, I am visibly shaken.

C. I display a certain vague curiosity about what just happened and pout sexily.

2. You are dragging your father’s headless corpse through some deserted frozen tundra, and it has become obvious to you that soon you will have to eat him if you mean to survive. What do we see on your face when the camera pans in for a closeup?

A. Resolve

B. Disgust

C. I display a certain vague curiosity and I pout sexily.

3. It’s the Apocalypse. The end of the world. Everyone you have ever known or loved is dead. They are all dead. You are the only person left on the earth AND your fucking glasses are broken. How do you react?

A. I wail and beat my breast uselessly as my heart breaks from the pain.

B. I scream until my voice gives out and then sob quietly.

C. I display vague curiosity and pout sexily.

So, how do you think you did? Click the extended entry to find out.
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We went Halloween costume shopping today. I believe the best costumes are usually of the home-made variety, but we were looking around anyway.

While we were in the costume shop, I noticed adult-sized Raggedy Ann and Andy costumes. This got me to thinking about the things we do for love. Obviously, if a man is wearing an Andy costume, his significant other wanted to dress as Raggedy Ann, and she somehow convinced him to be Andy so that their costumes matched.

Ladies, if your guy will dress up as a rag doll for you, it means one of three things:

1. He really loves you. We’re talking about that “Burning Love” Elvis sang about. Nothing to sniff at here. This is the real thing, baby.

2. He cheated on you, you found out, and now he’s trying to make up. Consider forgiving him. He’s wearing red yarn on his head. He’s sorry. Next to shooting himself outright, this is the best thing he could do to show you just how far he’s willing to go to make you trust him again.

Then again, the more I think about this scenario, the madder I get at your man for philandering. So, now I’m thinking you should break up with him. But, do it after the costume party, and be sure to take lots of pictures of him in that outfit. You’ll want to remember him that way.

3. You promised to do something pretty damn kinky in return for his compliance. I don’t know what it is you offered to do, but it must be some hot stuff, you naughty little Raggedy Ann, you. Also, he really loves you. Come on, he knew you’d end up doing the kinky thing anyway. He’s wearing those striped socks, because he loves you. I’m hearing Celine Dion in my head again. Hate that! But, your man wearing the Andy costume reminds me that our hearts will go on.

I gotta go. I’m getting choked up.

I’ve mentioned here before that I love my hairdresser. She does a great job on my hair, and I no longer even have to tell her what to do. For lack of a better phrase, I’ve finally got her broken in.

In other words, she no longer argues with me about how short I want my hair. She used to question me endlessly: “You’re sure? That short? Really? Your husband won’t get mad? We should start with the clippers on a higher setting. I can’t put it back on after I shave it off, you know.”

In fact, I used to have to haggle with her about the clipper setting:

Sherry – “I can go to a seven on the clippers. I won’t go lower. Even set at seven it is going to be pretty short.”

Me – “I swear you used a six last time, and it was fine.”

Sherry – “Well, we’ll start with the seven, and then if you still want it shorter, I’ll do it.”

We have since developed an understanding. She knows now that I never suffer any kind of remorse over losing a few pounds of hair in a single visit. She starts with the clippers on six, and we can use the time we used to have to spend haggling on friendly gossip.

She gossips non-stop from the time she sees me to the time when we part ways. This puts me completely at ease.

If the truth be told, hairdressers who have no stories to tell make me very nervous. On a subconscious level, I must be making the assumption that, if she doesn’t know any good gossip, she must be new to this whole beauty shop scene.

Maybe you’ve had the experience of getting your hair cut by someone who is too quiet? I have. You hear a pair of trepidacious scissors and every time the beautician takes a deep breath or huffs a little too loudly, you worry that what you just heard was some sort of internalized oops.

I’ve got no worries with Sherry in this area. She always has a tale to tell. For all I know, she may be a direct descendant of Edgar Allan Poe. She never actually told me she is related to Poe – I should ask her about that one next time, though.

Today she told me how one of her in-laws had a sister who was strangled to death by her very own son. The son, who is bi-polar, stopped taking his medication. Sherry said the police think he also raped his mother, although she wasn’t sure if the cops thought the rape took place before or after the mother was dead.

Either way, you gotta admit that – icky as it is – it’s a damn good story. And Sherry is an endless fount of stories like that. Truth be told that is one of the best narratives she spilled on me, but surely you realize that this kind of thing can’t happen every day.

Frankly, it wouldn’t be fair for me to expect for someone to whom Sherry has a very vague familial relationship to die in a gruesome fashion every time I need a haircut, and I certainly don’t want her to feel any need to start chopping up her distant relatives in order to better entertain little old me with her detailed accounts of the macabre.

Therefore, I don’t require Sherry to maintain that degree of quality or grossness in all of her stories. It’s enough for me that she is very talkative and enthusiastic, and gives me a great haircut.

Oh, and that she never introduces me to that guy. Never ever ever never ever. And, no, I don’t care if he’s back on his medicine or not.

Today is a sad day for my wardrobe. I must cease wearing my favorite pair of holey jeans, because they have an ever growing hole in the crotch that now extends out far enough on my back upper leg to almost fully expose my right ass cheek whenever I sit down.

Although I am in the habit of wearing undergarments, I guess I’m not comfortable enough with my sexuality that I want everyone I meet to know what color panties I chose that morning.

You know, I honestly wish there had ever been a time in my life when my underwear showing wouldn’t have bothered me.

I’m not sure if girls are still doing this anywhere trendy, because I live in Kentucky, which means I haven’t seen anything ever in a shop here that wasn’t already six months out of date before the image ever hit my cornea. As a direct result of this phenomenon, most women in Louisville don’t even attempt to be in vogue.

But, I see things on t.v., and I have read things about fashion. That’s how I know that, for a while there, girls who had good enough buns to want to show them off were wearing thongs under very loosely fitting jeans, thereby exposing their assets.

I read a letter to Ann landers on this subject during that time. It was from an older lady complaining about her husband staring at a woman who was clothed in this manner at a restaurant.

I think Ann forgot a very important issue when responding to this woman’s letter. That is why, although this is long after the fact, I feel a strong need to respond to the letter myself. I had a similar experience with Michael, and I think I can provide some insight on this topic.

Dear Old Bat,

If you had acted like you had some sense, your husband would have rocked your world that night with the same kind of enthusiasm that he usually reserves only for the Superbowl or some other such male nonsense.

Instead of taking him home and using all that amorous energy he had built up staring at the cute girl’s butt, you probably just yelled at him and made him sleep on the couch while you poured yourself into typing a sad letter to Ann Landers.

That woman endured wearing the most uncomfortable underwear known to man. Not for herself. No. She did it for you, so that your husband – with eyes tightly shut – could give you the best lovin’ you had in years.

Women who wear thongs publicly, and look good in them, provide a useful service. They get the wedgies, and we get laid in their stead.

If she touches your husband, scratch her eyes out. Otherwise, thank her. In fact, pay her to coincidentally show up a couple of times a week to the same places where you two happen to be out together.

I’m just sayin’.

Yours in Christ,

Debbie

If I saw that thong clad woman while we were out together and Michael didn’t seem to notice her, I would point her out to him in a heartbeat. I’d say something prudish like, “Michael, would you look at what that girl is wearing? Someone ought to spank her bottom for dressing like that.”

Wink wink. Nudge nudge.

The best sex we ever had was a night when we went to a haunted house where there were lots of scantily dressed teenaged girls squealing and bouncing around us in line. When I look back on that evening, I wish I had tape recorded them.

Go forth in a thong, brave soul. Do it for womankind. Wear it year round.

Me? I’m wearing granny panties, and I like to keep them covered. That’s why my holey jeans have to go.

My husband is a programming engineer. In case you are not sure what that is, here is the definition I’ve come up with:

Programming engineer – Someone who takes your toilet apart in an attempt to fix it, and then leaves it lying in pieces on the bathroom floor for three weeks.

Luckily, we have another restroom to use until he finally tells me to call a plumber.

If our toilet had what he’d considered to be a major problem, I could have called a plumber as soon as we finished cussing about how much it was going to cost. But, to my great dismay, it was a minor problem that Michael deemed he could fix himself.

It may have been a minor problem until he started messing around with it. But, now our toilet is in pieces and I see no end to this madness in sight, because it has now become a matter of pride for him. Typing those words gave me chills. I am so afraid.

At the outset of what has become more of a hobby for Michael than a simple chore, he told me he just needed one little part. We went to Lowe’s and bought the part that very night. Then, we went back to Lowe’s for another part two nights later. A week after that, he was at Lowe’s again buying yet another piece for the puzzle that is our toilet.

He spent half the day yesterday wrestling with it and cursing at it. At one point, I was stupid enough to go into the bathroom and ask him how it was going. I got curious, because I kept hearing a splash and then a curse and then silence. He informed me that the toilet was spraying water onto the wall every time he flushed it.

We have wallpaper in there right now. We may not by the time this is all over. I knew I shouldn’t have asked.

Ladies, a word of advice. If you notice your toilet is running, jiggle the handle to make it stop. Then, take a sledge hammer to it before your husband sees it and decides to fix it. Sure, you’ll have to have a plumber come in to replace your toilet, but it will save you some grief in the long run.

*This may be my last post. He might just shut me down. Love to all.

My Easy Cheese expired on May 24, 2002. No memorial service was held. I didn’t even know it was sick until I tried to squeeze some onto a potato chip and the first four inches were dried out. I’m not exaggerating about this.

I had to call Nabisco to find out when it had died, since the expiration date that’s on the can is encoded. In addition, I was curious as to the approximate age of my canned cheese in case it was an antique of sorts.

Getting the woman who took my call to reveal the expiration date was easy enough, but she seemed not to understand when I asked, “So, how old does that make it? When was it produced?” I knew now that the cheese had died in May of last year, but I was still anxious to know its age when it passed away.

She seemed to get a little pissed off when I asked that question. Maybe she had been left out of the will or something. She almost yelled when she said, “Well, it’s over a year old. We don’t recommend eating it after that point.”

Indeed. This was bad cheese.

It was well beyond the stage where it could be considered “easy” in any sense of the word. It struggled to emerge from the can, and when it finally did, it refused to be squirted into any of the standard Easy Cheese formations. It traveled with difficulty in a straight line and broke off mid-stream every couple of centimeters. Although I tried to be artistic with my ancient cheese, I soon came to realize its limitations were many. It simply could not be convinced to arc in any way, therefore a cheese circle or a cheese star were impossibilities.

By pushing the nozzle, I animated the dead. It was wrong. It was a cruel mockery. I was playing God. I was behaving like some snack food Dr. Frankenstein. I defied the natural laws of life, death and aerosol cheese.

I may just have to pay for this vanity with my very soul…

I ate some. Just a little. Don’t judge me. I felt compelled to, because it looked so gross. I had to test whether or not it still tasted like Easy Cheese.

It did. The consistency was different, but it was still deliciously cheesy.

I beg you to please just take my word for this. No matter how tempted you are, don’t try this experiment on yourself with a similarly old can of Easy Cheese. I only warn you because my vision is beginning to blur a bit, and I’m pretty sure that’s a bad sign.

As for the Nabisco lady, she never gave me a clear date of birth for my cheese. I would have questioned her further, but I feared pushing her over the proverbial edge. She seemed pretty stressed, and I didn’t want her to have a stroke or something on my account.

If answering a simple inquiry about cheese gets her freaked out, maybe she should take a little time off. I mean, if you work for Nabisco, you should be used to confronting cheese problems head on. Now that I think of it, that’s probably why Keebler just hires elves to make their cookies. They’re nowhere near as high strung as humans. I’m sure hiring elves has other benefits, but I digress.

Anyway, maybe it’s better that I’ll never know the age of this particular can of Easy Cheese. Some answers are so frightening that the questions are better left unasked.*

Isn’t it amazing how thought provoking a call to Nabisco can be? Depending on how this food poisoning thing goes, my next call might need to be to 911.

*I should write movie trailers.