Well Paint My Areolas and Call Me An A-Hole: It's.... DEAR APRON!

Welcome to Dear Apron, the non-advice column that chokes the balls off Dear Abby and her insipid (we're just loving on that word, aren't we kiddies?) acolytes.

Fucking acolytes. They always get into my turtle soup.

DEAR APRON:

My husband had an affair with a stripper. I found out about it because he bought her some jewelry and was stupid enough to have the bill sent to our home.

We have been married more than 20 years and I love him, but this haunts me every day. I am heartbroken, but I'm trying to make our marriage work. He never admitted to any of it and says nothing happened between them.

I don't know whether to keep on trying or leave him and hope to get on with my life. What's your advice? -- WOUNDED HEART IN OKLAHOMA

DEAR WOUNDED KNEE:

Wow, your husband really IS stupid. First of all-- why the hell would you buy jewelry for a stripper? All they want is money. Unless he bought her a pair of Swarovski crystal nipple rings. Oh, or an opalescent clit plug. Strippers just LOVE those things.

Second of all, I wouldn't be too sure that your stupid husband actually had an affair with a stripper. More likely he was just obsessed with one. I mean, you have to be able to get it up to have an affair, and I can't imagine a stripper in Oklahoma would waste her time on some noodle-doodled schlep like your husband. If a stripper's going to have an affair with a customer, she's going to pick someone with a little more panache, and some incredibly deep pockets. Otherwise-- what's the point? Unless this stripper was one of those toothless, forty-five-year-old wrecks shaking her pancakes on the 6am-6pm shift at some place called The Beaver Barn.

With regards to what you should do, well, I think you know what to do. And, after you hide the body I would strongly suggest starting your life over again. Since you will be on the run from the police, the first thing I would recommend is radical facial reconstruction surgery. I know a guy in Juarez-- if you want the info, just drop me G-chat.

Shaving your head is a must. Not only will it aid in appreciably altering your physical appearance, but it will be that liberating, I'm-a-lesbian-now statement that you need to make to free yourself from the bonds of an oppressive, unfortunate marriage.

After you've shacked up in a one room hovel with some black chick and lots of ferrets, become a cab driver in Argentina. Play folk ballads in random people's showers. Eat nothing but shoe leather. Adopt a porpoise. Write death threats to elderly, C-list celebrities. Become a forensic pathologist and make chandeliers out of cadaver ovaries.

And, as a special fuck-you to the past: strip, baby. Strip.

DEAR APRON:

Please answer a question for me. Why do we fall in love with people who we absolutely, positively cannot have? -- HEARTBROKEN IN INDIANAPOLIS

DEAR KNEEBROKEN:

I think this goes back to the ancient story of the tortoise and the hare. See, if you interpret this story correctly, the tortoise was a total queer. All he wanted to do was stick his nasty, green tongue inside of the hare's fuzzy little toothole. But the hare wasn't interested, being a hard-to-get, cock-blocking, straight-acting gay-boy. And so he was all like, "Oh, no! You can't catch me, I'm the gingerbread man!" And the tortoise was all like, "Uuuuuuunnnnnggggghhhhhh!" And the hare was like, "Whatevs, I'm straight!" Even though he was so not. And so then the hare was like, "I'm going to totally tease that tortoisey motherfucker, and I'm going to fall asleep here by the side of the road on my back so my fuzzy gennies will stick straight up in the air and I'll be like all rollin' around on my back and shit and that tortoise will just have to admire me from afar and jerk it with a blade of grass up his butt." But, while the hare was asleep, the tortoise was all like, "Motherfucker, if I can't have you, nobody will!" and he pulled out a TEC-9 from underneath his shell and he murdered an innocent gang of field mice who were playing Four Square and the hare woke up at the sound of the gunfire and the little pathetic mousie squeals and he was all like, "JESUS CHRIST, TORTS, YOU CRAZY FAG, STOP SHOOTING! I'M GAY, TOO! LET'S DO IT! YOU CAN PITCH!" but it was too late and the tortoise turned the gun on himself and basically turned himself into soup. Which the hare ate, because that's how hares roll.

And that, friend, is why we fall in love with those whom we absolutely, positively cannot have. Thank you for asking.

DEAR APRON:

I am a young, single mother of two girls. I work full time and I'm involved in my daughters' lives. I go to all their school functions, coach their soccer team, serve as the Cookie Mom for Girl Scouts and volunteer for anything else I can manage to squeeze into my schedule, but I have a hard time making friends with any other moms.

None of the other mothers wants to get to know me. I wait at the bus stop with my girls and the moms talk to each other, but not to me. I get a weird "vibe" from them, as if they think I'm too young to know anything. I try to join in, but it seems they really don't care for me.

I have friends my age, but they don't have children. I want friends who have families because they face the same kind of issues I do. What can I do to make these moms like me?
-- FRIEND-CHALLENGED IN CYPRESS, TEXAS

DEAR LOSER:

My, this is vexing for you, and perplexing for me. What could be the problem here? From the information contained in your thrilling letter, it would seem that you have lots in common with these other mothers-- you are all heavily involved in your children's activities like the obsessive, helicopter mothers that you are, you all live in the same neighborhood and have presumably the same socioeconomic status, and you obviously all have children the same age.

So... what could be the factor that is driving a wedge between you and these other veal cuntlettes?

Oh-- wait a minute! I think I've got it. Are they all hot? Are these the little mommies who drive around in Acura RDX's and wear shiny tennis bracelets and have incredibly tight bodies and do hot yoga and then shower together afterwards?

And are you... an obese redhead in elastic-waist pants with blotchy skin, dubious hygiene and at least one droopy eyelid?

See? That wasn't so hard. Most of these seemingly mysterious questions can be solved by a simple, 3-second glance in the mirror. I think we're done here.