Bed, Perchance to Sleep...

I slept for shit last night.

I don't know why. My wife and I were at my mother and father's for dinner last night. The event commenced, as it is ordained so to do, at 5:30 and, by 7:20, we were both nodding off at the table.

"Jesus Christ," I hazily exclaimed after looking at my watch, "it's only 7:20?"

"So?" my mother dared me to proceed with further commentary.

"Well, come on," I slurred, "it's like a fucking opium den in here. Look at her," I said, gesturing lazily to my wife, "she can barely keep her head up."

My wife, almost cross-eyed, enthusiastically bobbed her head up and down, presumably in agreement.

I don't know what it is about my parent's house that is so soporific, but you can't be in there for longer than an hour and a half without your brain turning into a gray slushie. It's not like the conversation isn't lively-- it is-- last night we were conversing energetically about safety recalls of the pack-n-play my mother bought for my sister, my father was trying to harrass me into accepting a re-gift of a Continental Airlines credit-card holder ("The Israeli ambassador gave it to me! It's Italian leather, mummy-- beautiful!") while my eldest sister was giving my wife meticulous directions to the gynecologist's office in New Jersey. I mean, it's a pretty festive fucking environment.

I ended up not accepting the credit-card holder, regardless of its alleged quality and provenance. "How many credit cards do you think I have, for God's sake?" I asked. This thing was made for big boys. It even had a slot for a passport, with a piece of paper in it made to look like a passport, and a long, vertical slot for an airline ticket, with a fake airline ticket inside for "HAPPY AIRLINE." Can you just picture the flight attendants on Happy Airline?

My father is always trying to give me shit I don't want-- coupons to Ruby Tuesday ("Take your wife out for dinner, for God's sake-- it's beautiful!"), supermarket coupons, "Sveetie-- you won' believe this-- 2 liter bottles of Pepsi Diet for 89 cents each! I mean, fuck!") or random food products they have lying around the house that they can't wait to get rid of ("Mummy-- you like sunflower seeds, right?") but it's usually fruit.

Yesterday, we managed to escape with only half a watermelon, which we had to carry home in a bag as we walked to their house. It's a pleasant enough walk, though when encumbered with half a watermelon, it's decidedly less so. I don't know how serial killers or mafioso walk around with severed heads in bowling ball bags all the time.

I guess we should have gone to sleep immediately after arriving home from their house, but we stayed up for another three hours and while this should have only increased my thirst for sleep, I instead got totally wired. As I lay in bed, my wife instantly asleep after a back rub, my mind wandered to the following topics:

Everything I did wrong this weekend including, but not limited to,

# hitting my head a total of four (4) times

# breaking a shelf my father-in-law hand-made for us five years ago

# breaking a large lamp bulb in the kitchen (by hitting my head on it-- #2 out of 4)

* being unprepared for work today

* all the bills that have been paid/have to be paid

* obsessing about our mortgage and its seeming unendingness

* ditto on school loans

* the many ways someone could easily break into our house

* the fact that I sleep naked in the summer and how stupid I would look confronting a burglar in such aforementioned nudity and how my only shot at not getting killed would be that the burglar would probably laugh so hard at my emaciated form that he might drop his gun.

* thinking about death

* thinking about Michael Jackson's death

* considering a myriad of snappy combacks I'd love to say to people, especially my boss

* obsessing about why I can't fall asleep

I must have fallen asleep for at least a little bit, because I know I had a dream about my father promising to buy my a vintage Volkswagen Beetle (something he already did for me when I was fourteen-- and I ended up selling it at age 15-and-a-half because I was too scared to drive it due to its lack of safety features, like, um, shoulder belts). The dream, of course, didn't go well, and ended with me yelling at him because he didn't understand that Volkswagen stopped making the original Beetle in the year 1979 and that I was only interested in Beetles from 1962-1967, but that I wanted to test-drive "a later model just to be sure."

"You mean like 1995 or 1996?"

"NO, GODDAMNIT! THEY WEREN'T MAKING THEM THAT LATE!"

"You mean like 1991 or 1992?"

"AAAAAAAAH! NO! WHAT THE FUCK! I MEAN, LIKE, 1968 to 1971! JESUS!"

"Oh. So, like 1989 or something."

My poor father. We are destined to be unable to communicate, even in my dreams. My very brief, unsatisfied, unkind, unrequited dreams. Oh well. There's always tonight. Maybe, instead of our marital bed, I can try sleeping at my parent's dining room table. It's a good thing I don't see a therapist anymore, or he might call that a disturbing bit of regression.

Surface Normal

The last girl I dated before I met my wife was not a fan of my family. She came from a thoroughly dysfunctional family, outwardly so. People knew it. Her father had died too soon, and her mother was callous, embittered, rageful and quite insane. Her brother was a budding homosexual. She was an emotionally confused, drama obsessed young woman who viewed any type of stability as a disease not worth having.

I remember vividly bringing her home to have dinner with my family. There we all were-- my parents, married for upteen million years, my two sisters and me, all seated at our assigned-by-tradition seats around the dining room table, where we ate together as a cohesive family unit. Every night. We chatted amicably and, when dinner was through, we had our coffee and out tea. Amicably. Sure, my father probably made some inappropriate comments in broken English about the latest Catholic boy-touching scandal or what-have-you but, assuredly, on the surface, it was as normal a family gathering as one could expect.

When she broke up with me two weeks later, my then-girlfriend stated that one of the reasons for the demise of our tumultuous and brief stint was that she felt "suffocated by the normalcy of my family." I found this statement to be both confusing and amusing. My family-- normal? It didn't seem to make much sense at the time, but I realized later that she hadn't stuck around long enough for the cracks to show. Some peoples' families are crazy at the first glance-- like the Kennedys, but some you need to squint and poke and prod so that you can truly appreciate the bumps, lumps and irregularities that make almost every family nuts.

We are most certainly what I would call S.N. This stands for "Surface Normal." (I'm trying to use acronyms in honor of Heidi Murkoff, pregnancy guru and author of "What to Expect Before You're Expecting." How am I doing?) We're S.N. in as much as if you attend a gathering hosted by my family, we'll be on our best behavior until we get comfortable with you. Then, my eldest sister will start belching at the table like a construction worker, my other sister will lob a "Fuck you, scumbag!" across the dinner table in my direction, my father will retire to the living room to commence doing situps on the floor, and my mother will disappear to do laundry, wash the dishes, make her bed, clean the roof, milk the goats, or any other number of diverse activities that will enable her to avoid the rest of us for twenty minutes.

Surface Normal.

Last night, there was a gathering of the three children, at my eldest sister's condominium that was definitely S.N. I'm rather excited to tell my parents about it tonight when my wife and I go over to their house for dinner, because I know they'll be happy that all three of their children were having a get together at which nobody screamed obscenities, threw something of value, or received an Indian Burn.

Not only were the three children in attendance at this S.N. event, but my wife was there, and the middle sister was there, too, with her boyfriend, her boyfriend's son from a one-night stand, and the unborn fetus that her boyfriend sired in January.

Mmmm... not so normal anymore, are we, ex-girlfriend bitch?

Or maybe this is the new normal. I don't know. All I know is that it all seems very white-trashy to me. This wasn't supposed to happen to our family. But, then again, my mom did get knocked up at age 17, so maybe we're not so lily-white after all.

Anyway, we all congregated on my eldest sister's balcony to watch the fireworks. She lives on the eleventh floor of an eleven-story building in a pristine condo that she obsessively cleans every single weekend. This was the first time a four-year-old had ever entered her domicile, and she was seriously shitting herself with worry that this kid would single-handedly break everything she owned, right down to the stemware. Fortunately, he only knocked over one lamp, whilst jumping up and down on her guest bed.

As fireworks from several different towns exploded (mostly below the tree-line) all around us in the panoramic sky, I heard my sister's beau seeth the words, "This sucks" into her hair. I turned and glared at him in the pitch darkness.

"No," I thought, "you suck, fucktard." I was actually enjoying myself, on the balcony, way up high, with my family. The people who are my family. I didn't get to choose any of them, except for my wife. I certainly didn't get to choose my sisters-- and I sure as hell didn't choose the 6'3 guy with tattoos all over his arms, basketball shorts and a four year old kid who likes to yammer on incessantly about chicken toots. I didn't choose the entity inside my sister's belly, the result of super-sperm that, somehow, only manages to fertilize the eggs of unmarried women.

But that little bastard's going to be my family, too. And I couldn't care less if we can see the fireworks or not-- as long as my family's there.

There was a very unsettling time in the months before my wife and I got married where my middle sister and I didn't speak to each other. Her invitation to the wedding was late getting out because I didn't know her address, and I couldn't get ahold of her on the phone to ask her for it, and my parents didn't know it, so pretty much everybody ended up getting their invitations before her. Even people in Australia. I was lazy about getting the address, and negligent, but it didn't occur to me that it mattered much. What was I going to do-- not invite her? Please. But she wigged and didn't speak to me for a couple months, except to blow up at me a couple times when she felt like losing some steam.

My parents had a talk with me during this unpleasantness, this disruption of the S.N. we had prided ourselves on for so long.

"You know, after we die," my father said, "all you will have is each other."

"Well," I replied, "that's a pleasant thought."

"No, it's not, you asshole," my mother chimed in, "my brothers and I didn't speak to each other until my father died-- is that what you want? We're only now just beginning to repair our relationship. I'm almost 60, for Christ's sake. You all have to grow up."

But is it possible? Is it possible to grow up? I wondered about that last night, as I sat on the balcony in the cool Independence Night air. My sister, her boyfriend, the little kid, and the fetus had departed-- before the very visible and very cool fireworks finale of one of the towns off in the distance. My wife, my eldest sister and I were busy clucking with disgust about my other sister's, um, predicament. We laughed and tsked and gossiped and vented. We did what we needed to do to stay sane. To stay S.N. Because, really, on its surface, it was a perfectly normal evening. We did okay, even if we let loose after they left. I mean, hey-- you know they knocked the rest of us in the jeep on their way home, as the kid was asleep in the back dreaming of chicken toots.

And that's okay, I guess. Because tonight I'll tell my parents that we were all at my sister's on the balcony, watching the fireworks as a family. And that we all had a great time.

And Sousa Was There, Too

It's amazing-- how you can live in a small town your whole life and never notice certain things about it until later on in your life.

Like, for instance: I never knew we had a 4th of July parade in my town-- until today, when my wife and I sat out on our porch like octogenarians and watched it go by. Apparently, they've been doing it every single year since Christ was six.

Who knew?

My family was never very patriotic, so I guess that's part of the reason we never sought out the 4th of July parade. My father's Israeli, and my mother is apathetic and afraid of large gatherings, so that kind of counts us out of the whole parade thing by and large.

My parents were never one to teach us about the presidents or quiz us on the functions of the various branches of government. Unlike homeschool wackjob parents who lock their kids in the basement and make them play the harp for ten hours a day, my parents trusted the public school system to fill our heads with all that bullshit. They never cared for the 4th of July or Veterans Day. In fact, the week after September 11th, I drove home from college and was very surprised to find an American flag hanging outside out house. My mother met me on the front lawn.

"I told Daddy he'd better put that goddamn thing up before you came home," she said to me after our hug.

So I didn't know from flag-waving or parades, but I knew about Santa and the fire-truck, though, even as a little kid. On Christmas Day, some fat bastard fire fighter dressed as Santa Claus and hung off the back of the ladder truck throwing things at children-- I presume they were candy canes or mayonnaise some other shit that goyim children eat.

I guess I always knew about Santa Day because they blared the fucking fire engine's siren and vintage airhorn, so you couldn't really ignore that, even if you wanted to. And I'm sure the vastly Jewish majority of residents in my neighborhood wanted to.

The 4th of July parade that my wife and I watched from the comfort of our porch was, um, kind of lame. I mean, it was the first parade I had ever seen in my life, so I suppose, if I was judging it against anything, I was judging it against the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade, which I admit to have seen snippets of on television and referenced in films and soda commercials. The parade was spearheaded by an emergency services pick-up from our local volunteer fire station. I have affectionately dubbed this vehicle The Sousatruck, as it was blaring marches for all to hear through its public address system. Very tasteful. Then there were a couple of awkward looking girl scouts. I always wondered what the fuck girl scouts did besides sell cookies, and now I have my answer. They look awkward and carry flags at the 4th of July parade. Thanks, ladies.

The girl scouts were followed by ordinary townsfolk, wearing red, white & gay t-shirts and shorts and fucked up hats. One of them said, "We Recycle" and it had a bunch of shit taped to it, like a soda can and other pieces of whateverthefuck. I didn't get it. I thought it was Independence Day, not Crazy Hat Day. But whatever.

Then there was a red Chrysler 300 and a woman my mom works with at the library was waving from the passenger window like Queen Elizabeth. She recognized me and smiled, but continued waving regally. And I wanted to go back inside.

But, I couldn't stop looking at Crazy Hat Day.

And Crazy Dress Your Dachshund Up Day.

And Crazy Hot-Glue Random Streamers and Sparkles and Shit to Your Bicycle Day.

It was quite a sight, let me tell you. The fat fire fighters were there, hanging off the back of the ladder trucks. They weren't throwing mayonnaise, though. They were taking pictures of the dozens of children with their crazy-ass bicycles.

Yeah, look out, Facebook. Here we come.

Mrs. Slocombe, Are You Free?

With all of the detestable, unending ridiculum surrounding the demise of Michael Jackson, a man who has already upstaged the deaths of other celebrities like Farah Fawcett and TV pitchman and screamer Billy Mayes, the death of one more celebrity might just go thoroughly under, or even un-reported-- left ignored in the haze of news of Michael Jackson's final moonwalk.

Mollie Sugden has died.

She was the female rock of "Are You Being Served?" playing the staid and stolid Mrs. Slocombe from 1972-1985. One might have thought she never would have survived this long, that the copious amounts of hair dye that routinely turned her locks into what can only be described as cotton candy on a regular basis would have seeped through the scalp and turned her brain into something resembling fontina cheese many years ago-- but she survived all that.

Mollie Sugden, a dignified lady, sent audiences howling with repeated, straight-faced references to her "pussy," often the reason she had to rush home after a long day of work at Grace Brothers. After all, if she didn't let her pussy out-- who would?

"Mr. Rrrrrumbold," she would say in that royal tone of hers, a pink eyebrow severely raised, "I cannot possibly stay late for a staff meeting tonight-- there's my pussy to consider!"

And consider it we did.

Sugden was a unique actress, the likes of which we probably will never see on television again. She was always at least upper middle age in our minds, and her famous character, Mrs. Slocombe was obsessed with correctness and class, and yet had the unique ability to deliver vulgar, coarse lines with a total air of naivete about her, a complete ignorance that she had said anything objectionable or foul. Mollie Sugden was a comedienne in a world that isn't quite sure it knows what that means anymore. She was Grace Brothers' graceful matriarch, and those of us who grew up with that show and that store won't soon forget her lovely contribution to television history.

She didn't seek to change the world, to make it her oyster, to dominate the public sphere and demand that the world stop the moment she passed away. She didn't seek headlines or scandal or vainglorious attention the way other people of note do. She was a quiet woman who lived in Guildford, married to the same man for forty-two years-- a feat most celebrities seem unable to accomplish. She was a quiet woman who, at the age of five, read a silly poem at a Christmas pageant that had everybody collapsing about with laughter. She was a woman who realized early on in life, "how wonderful it was to make people laugh."

I thank you for the laughs, dear. And I am unanimous in that.

The Lone Gunmen of the FCC

I'm not a conspiracy theorist.

Normally.

I don't think aliens brought down TWA Flight 800, I'm pretty sure John F. Kennedy wasn't killed by a Chinese midget dressed as a Dallas prostitute, and I am almost entirely convinced that Michael Jackson is really dead.

I do admit that there's a very small part of me that thinks that, at his funeral, he's going to jump out of the coffin and grab his crotch, hopefully with the gloved hand.

So, while I'm not someone who runs around his neighborhood wearing a tin-foil yarmulke to keep the government transmitters from being privy to my inner monologue, I am definitely convinced that the FCC is in bed with American cable television providers, and that the two entities are engaged in a sinister and insidious plot to force people to get cable.

You recall the Digital, High-Definition Revolution of June? Remember how it was originally supposed to take place in, like February or something? Well, apparently, many Americans "weren't ready."

Right?

Horseshitty-on-a-sticky!

Not enough holdouts had procured cable television for the scheme to be worthwile. So, the FCC said, we'll wait. We'll wait you antiquated, inbred motherfuckers out. People like, oh, I don't know, YOU, MR. APRON! Yes! We'll get you, and your stupid, gray dog, too.

Well, they got me. Today, they got me.

I called Comcast today.

I didn't want to do it, but I couldn't take it anymore.

Here's a list of the television programs we consume on a regular basis:

Action News (6:42am-6:58am) - Prime morning couch cuddle time.

The Today Show (7:00am-7:14am) - Gives me shit to bitch (I mean "blog") about.

Jeopardy (7:00pm-7:25pm)

SouthLAnd (10:00pm-11:00pm)

Antiques Roadshow (8:00pm-9:00pm)

Other shows are watched on a sporadic basis, but these are our mainstays. Our bread-and-butter, if you will. Since stations switched over to Digital, our reception has been spotty at best. Spotty is never a good thing to be, whether it's inside a pair of flowery panties, whether it's your credit, criminal or employment history, or whether it's your TV reception. You can move the fucking antenna every which way until your arms fall off-- it doesn't matter. Al Roker still stops and starts and stutters and cuts in and out as if he has a stutter, cerebral palsy, Tourettes, is being censored and shaken by a paint mixer, all at the same time.

Sometimes, the reception will be just fine forty-five minutes into an hour-long episode of SouthLAnd, and then, just when the dramatic action is at its pivotal moment, I'll move my left shoulder to get more comfortable and that's it. "NO SIGNAL" floats around in a quaint little box around a totally black screen. It might as well be a graphic depiction of a middle finger being inserted over and over again into the asshole one of those pudgy, strange IKEA cartoon men. In, out, in, out-- no more TV cop drama for you shitheads!

Not until you get... cable.

Cable promises crystal clear reception. No converter boxes. No fucking rabbit ears. No worrying if the goddamn dog's movements or anal expulsions of stankair will disturb the signal.

We already have Comcast for our internet, and, on every bill it says something to the effect of, "Problems with your digital signal? Consider Comcast television for a consistently clear picture."

Yeah. Fuck you, tweettwats.

My wife and I have been avowed and smug cable television holdouts for as long as we've known each other. Neither of us has had cable television since college. I don't know what it was like for Mrs. Apron, but I used to cut classes to watch certain cases on Court TV. I was, obviously, riveted to BBC America, and I don't use the word "riveted" lightly. I actually had rivets attached to my corneas that surgically connected them to the television set when BBC America programming was on. "Father Ted," "People Like Us," "Fawlty Towers," "MPFC," etc, etc. It was awful. Then again, my best friend at the time used to cut class to play "Zelda," but his GPA was consistently higher than mine, which leads me to believe that a.) I'm stupid and b.) cable television is more detrimental than video games, except for Grand Theft Auto, which everybody knows makes kids shoot policemen in the face and run over lines of joggers while shouting "GOURAAAAANGA!"

I'm disappointed and sad that we're getting cable television. The guy's coming over Sunday between 1 and 3. It sucks. I don't want it, and I feel like I've been totally gotten by the FCC/Cablevision conspiracy, but at least there's no alien autopsy being conducted in my basement, and at least my mother's not a peapod person.

And at least I'll never have to make the cold, hard decision between Acting II and Court TV, ever again.

Muckety-Muck

Here are some random thoughts/questions/observations to get you through your daily/nightly muckety-muck.

* What is it about being a Certified Public Accountant that somehow makes you qualified to observe a state lottery drawing on television? Do CPAs get time-tested on identifying ping-pong balls with black numbers on them?

* Why is it that white, dour, ridiculous-looking politicians in their mid-fifties can't seem to keep their dicks in their pants? I mean, seriously-- what the fuck? There's Spitzer, the South Carolina governor-- that faggot in the airport bathroom... Do black politicians boink people who aren't their wives? Doesn't seem like it. Do women politicians get mustache rides from mystery men in anonymous hotel rooms? Hard to imagine, isn't it? Well, maybe "unpleasant" is a better word.

* Why are people all-of-a-sudden totally obsessive about holding the door open for other patrons at the WaWa, but don't seem to give a shit about it at any other commercial establishment? Seriously-- this is a bizarre kind of chivalry I haven't observed anywhere else-- it's like WaWa is the Court of King Arthur. I have no idea what that's about-- but it happens to me, too. Then again, I hold the door open for people everywhere and, invariably, I get stuck there while Indian families consisting of a dozen or more members leisurely troll on through while my wife stands, grinning at me.

* Why does it always rain when I decide to leave the car windows open? On a related topic: God, why do you love kicking me in the schnutz?

* What the fuck happened to WHYY Channel 12? It was a victim of the D-TV Revolution. Che Guevera of the airwaves killed it. It is dead. No more "Antiques Roadshow" on Monday nights. We just don't get it anymore. I've tried rescanning the motherfucking TV six times now. It's gone. We get Channel 23, which is New Jersey PBS, and so we get to watch "Roadshow" on Tuesday nights but, seriously, one PBS station (from another alien state, no less) is not adequate PBSage for this household. The decrease in PBS stations can only be a bad thing for the already retarded American populous.

* I'm seriously over Paris Hilton. Even naked Paris Hilton gets on my fucking nerves.

* Apparently, people commonly stand in the aisles of Yemeni planes for the entire duration of their flights. Can you imagine that? I mean, it's one thing to do that on a subway or a trolley, but, seriously, on a goddamn plane? How the fuck does the stewardess get her little drink cart full of 8 ounce Frescas down the pike?

* So they're not going to bury Michael Jackson at NeverLand. Apparently they've decided that, since he's basically human, a cemetery would be more appropriate.

* The window unit in this room that came with our house is called "The Power Miser." At least it's not called "The Tight-Fisted, Conk-Faced Jew."

* My wife is attending a book lecture at the local library right now. When are we not going to be the youngest people at public events (folk music concerts, Gilbert & Sullivan operas, early music ensembles, the legitimate theatre, etc...)?

* Why is Al Sharpton on TV pretending he gives a shit about the death of Michael Jackson? I realize Jackson is black and dead, but, to the best of my knowledge, he wasn't shot by a white police officer.

* Why is there a zit on my upper left cheek? I mean, haven't we done this already?

* Why did I get that Master's degree again?

* Why does Pandora.com play three songs you love followed by five songs you like followed by sixty-seven you can't fucking stand?

* It's impossible to take the British seriously. I mean, "fairy cakes?" Come on-- you didn't seriously used to be the supreme imperial world power, did you?

* I don't know what I'm more afraid of-- collapsing all alone and dying with absolutely no one to help me, or collapsing in front of an idiot who breaks my entire ribcage at a completely inept attempt at CPR and I wind up dying anyway, or collapsing in front of a group of idiots who do nothing but watch me flop around like a fish on the floor.

* I love Gilbert & Sullivan, dressing up in fine clothes, and talking about my feelings. I think God forgot to install that Gay Pentium chip.

* I'm only truly happy when I'm eating food with a sodium content of at least 1000mg.

* Do you remember when Facebook didn't suck hogsdick?

* I haven't ever been seriously punched in the face. It's going to happen one day, though. I keep waiting.

* Sometimes I wonder if I'm ever going to write and publish a second book. I highly doubt I will, and I think I'm a failure because of that. Then I think of all the other assholes out there who've never published one. And I smile. So, I'm a failure, but a smiling one.

* Lots of times, I want to be on the street as an EMT again. I know it doesn't pay, but I don't care. Well, I do care, but I don't want to.

* I think iconography is funny. I can't stop making fun of it. I work in a church and they have these flags hanging from the ceiling and one of them depicts a book with a fish on top of it. I mean-- really? What the fuck does that mean? Do people pray to that? I'd feel dumb. "God bless you, book fish thing." Like, whatever.

* I know this young girl with the worst eczema I've ever seen. Her entire body looks like a lobster and she scratches herself incessantly, sometimes both hands disappear beneath the waistband of her shorts. I can't stop staring at her, I'm sure with thinly veiled disgust, and yet, I can't look at her without honestly wanting to vomit. Especially when she eats the skin flakes. I mean, isn't this what institutions were created for-- so we normal people wouldn't have to see that shit?

* I think the people who read my blog are the saintliest motherfuckers in the entire universe. Seriously-- you and my mom deserve a fucking medal.

So Many Assholes, So Little Time: It's DEAR APRON Time!

Oh, dear... my wife made the mistake of leaving her Dear Abby website up on the computer this morning.

And a little blogger-boo just can't resist, can he?

DEAR APRON:

My boyfriend, "Beau," and I moved in together and already we have trust issues. He doesn't trust me around his computer. He said he has things on it that are part of his past, and it's none of my business.

One of the things he doesn't want me to see is "The List." He keeps a list of all the girls he has slept with -- including one-night stands. I have asked Beau how many there have been, but he doesn't want to tell me "because it will hurt me." He has revealed that it's a number between 10 and 50.

I have asked him to delete the list, but he said that if he gets a weird disease in the future, he can always refer back to it. I have nightmares about this.

Should I drop the matter? -- UNLISTED NUMBER IN TEXAS

DEAR UNLISTED:

Absolutely you should drop the matter. Jesus Christ-- what are you: a lawyer? That Beau of yours is a catch, young missy, and all you're trying to do is screw everything up with your ceaseless suspicion. God! Where the fuck do you get off anyway?

So, Beau's been around. We'll, obviously! I mean, look at him! Himbo McManmeat, right? I mean, you feel for him like a toilet filled with craprods, didn't you? Well, what did you think-- that he went to college in a monastary? Hardly, peachiepie. That Beau of yours was spurting and spraying inside the vaggies of some of Collegetown's finest coeds. 10-50 of them, to be exact, and don't be surprised if that number's even higher. I mean, someone of Beau's scintillating proportions was probably banging some serious beaver back in middle school. I mean, you just can't keep a good man down.

I understand why you want him to delete the list, dearie. You'd much rather pretend that nothing ever happened to Beau before you gave him his first totally inept and inadequate humjob behind the 7-Eleven dumpster. But, sweetiecrotch, everyone has a past, and while not everyone is as meticulous a record-keeper as Beau and the Nazis, everyone has a history, especially of fornication. Except fat, greasy, Hot-Pocket-eating losers who you wouldn't deign to sleep with anyway.

So, until you start whoring yourself out to folks at Trekkie conventions, you're just going to have to accept the fact that Beau already has several "weird diseases" courtesy of the stars of several "Girls Gone Wild" videos. And you do, too.

DEAR APRON:

My older sister, "Carole," has been dealing with breast cancer for almost a year. Although my family and I live three hours away and are struggling with problems of our own, we have always been supportive of her.

Last week, Carole called to tell me she'll be going to Australia at the end of the year -- a "reward" from her husband for everything she has been through. I was happy for her until she informed me that I would be taking care of her kids for two weeks while she's on vacation.

I joked, "It doesn't sound like you're giving me any choice in this." She replied: "No, I'm not. I went through cancer. I deserve this trip."

I reminded Carole that when I watched her kids just two months ago, things didn't go well. They are completely different from my children, and they don't like each other. Her 5-year-old daughter cried all night, every night while she was here. Her son destroys everything he comes into contact with -- we still have a hole in the bedroom wall -- and has a vocabulary I don't want my kids exposed to.

Do I have a right to just say "no" and offer my best wishes in finding a sitter? I feel guilty, but I don't feel she's entitled to demand this from me. Am I being a bad sister?

-- NEEDS RESOLUTION IN THE MID-ATLANTIC

DEAR NEEDY:

Well, shit! I hope I don't ever get cancer and wake up and you're my sister! What a cold, unfeeling, icequeen biatch you are! Damn, yo!

No, seriously, you're a terrible sister. You're all high-and-mighty now because your sister Carole is in remission, but just wait until they find polyps on her liver and tumors in her lymph nodes in a year or two. You're not going to be so fucking smug then, you little twat.

Should she have asked you in advance about this? Sure, but she was probably a little busy, you know, vomiting in every toilet within a 50 mile radius, picking up her hair all around the house with a Swiffer mop and writing out her will. See, dear, people with cancer are kind of busy with all that stuff.

I realize you're just jealous that she's not taking you to Australia, but, hey, maybe you'll get cancer and go into remission and then you can do it right back to Carole.

If she's still alive, that is.

DEAR APRON:

Does anyone know what the protocol is for providing food for house sitters? Should they bring their own, or should it be provided for them?

-- NOT CERTAIN IN ALBANY, ORE.

DEAR NOT CERTAIN:

How about "Uncertain in Albany, Ore?" I mean, we already have a word for people who are "not certain," so, why don't you use it? Oh, and, while we're on the subject of mercilessly berating you, isn't the proper abbreviation for Oregon just "Or?" Jesus, you need to go back to school, buddy.

Now, in answer to your question about leaving food for housesitters, there is no real "protocol" as you call it, because this isn't the armed/uniformed services. We civilians don't have prescribed "protocol" for our everyday operations and behavior. We're good like that.

However, it does kind of depend on how hot the housesitter is. I mean, seriously, Chet, if you have some college chick with a rockin' little body who likes to parade around your house in soffe shorts and tank-tops taking care of the old homestead while you're off in Australia celebrating your lack of cancer, you're going to be a little more generous with the food, aren't you? Of course, you're also going to set up lots of hidden cameras, too.

Don't forget to use lithium batteries in those jauns, too, n'yah mean?