Over the weekend Jon and I bought a post office box, except it’s not a post office box in the literal sense. It’s a box (NICE BOX!), and you can send mail there, but it isn’t at the post office. Who needs the Federal Government when you have UPS? Oh, capitalism!

Many times I have been asked for an address so that someone could send me something. I have been unable to give out our address for two reasons: 1) My husband is fiercely protective, and 2) I DON’T KNOW IF YOU HEARD ME THE FIRST TIME, BUT, my husband is fiercely protective. I have received my fair share of wacky email from unstable people in the past, and both Jon and I have been very careful when it comes to handing out the location of our house, outside of which people could park their cars and look in with binoculars, or say, run up naked and smear their hairy chest on our windows.

Jon is very cute when he becomes protective. The hair sort of stands up on the back of his neck and his nostrils flare, and then he’ll say something like, “By God, woman, if that lunatic ever emails you again…” I swear to God you don’t want to be that lunatic. I don’t know what Jon would do to you, you lunatic. It might involve some crafty CSS, and then you’d be left leg-less and unable to validate, PERMANENTLY. You don’t want your code broken that long, sucker, so STOP SENDING ME WEIRD EMAIL.

I am really excited about our faux P.O. Box because that means I can receive ACTUAL PAPER MAIL, from people! And when actual people ask me, do you have an address I could send this thing to? I can say, “Why yes! I do, in fact. And I can give it to you without fear of my husband leaving you a paraplegic.”

That address is, are you ready? Really? ARE YOU READY?

Heather B. Armstrong
Blurbodoocery
1338 Foothill Drive #230
Salt Lake City, UT 84108

Over the weekend I also discovered that my husband is a “Jeopardy!” snob. And I don’t know if I can watch “Jeopardy!” with him ever again because he WON’T STOP GETTING THE QUESTIONS RIGHT, MOTHERFUCKER. Who the hell is Dick Shawn? And any category involving pop culture, FORGET ABOUT IT. For the past week “Jeopardy!” has been airing its Tournament of Champions, meaning it’s been featuring the best contestants from the past year of competition (sans Ken Jennings, sadly! How We Love You, Ken!) And JON! JON! Jon keeps trumping these supposed Champions, firing off question after question that is RIGHT! Who did I marry? Is he a secret member of Mensa? Why did I not know this about him before we decided to breed? That his offspring would be freaskishly good with trivia thus rendering her a pariah among her peers! The Final Jeopardy question the other night involved something about some Russian something and it STUMPED ALL THE PREVIOUS CHAMPIONS! Yet, yet…. Yet Jon knew the correct answer! Chechnya! WHO KNEW! Jon knew, that’s who! What the hell have we given life to?

We have a new postal address and a new “Jeopardy!” policy: must only watch game shows when thoroughly drunk and unable to make the other look like a drooling fool.