An Economy-Size Pain the Foot

Dear Reader,
I write this to you for your own good. Heed my cautious warnings.

As you know, I am lured into savings like trailer-dwellers into a flea market. That's a lot. Do you know how I know? Because I live in a trailer and nothing warms my heart more than a plastic Jesus with the Ten Commandments written in Spanish. Any place with multi-colored cotton candy and every design conceivable on Zippos is a tropic resort in my mind.
Focus, Shonda. Your readers need you.
Okay, I know it's hard to resist a good deal and, normally, there's few bad things that result in a little extra jingle. However, no matter what you do, DO NOT BUY THE ECONOMY-SIZE SHISH-KA-BOB SKEWERS.
Strolling through the Sam's Club about a year ago, the package caught my eye.
1,000 little sticks for, like, $2.
That's what I spent on a measly 100 not long before that.
I couldn't pass this up. That's like (let me do the math in my head) 900 free. Just imagine how handy that would be if I needed to torture, I mean use "enhanced interrogation tactics," on Rowdy. In case you've never submitted to a totally accurate allergy test before, those little prickly sticks can inflict as much pain as a leather bull whip. Trust me, you'd rather sneeze.
Even though I only make shish-ka-bobs and tempura 12 times a year, at the most, I just couldn't walk away from this bargain. Throwing the skewers, which were in a clear bag as round as a Pringles can, into my basket, I envisioned all the grilled delights I would serve with my nearly endless supply of, well, supplies. I brought them home, stuck them in my cookbook basket and they've rested peacefully there until last month.
Almost magically, Rolan became an adventurous, strong-willed explorer on his second birthday. He is literally everywhere. He's like the wind, like the destructive, giggling wind.
As he was crawling over the kitchen counter (and don't you know that I just freakin' love that he's crawling on the counter), the industrial-size package of shish-ka-bob skewers caught his attention. While most folks see culinary materials, Rolan saw a stockpile of drumsticks. ONE THOUSAND LITTLE MUSIC MAKERS, PERFECT FOR HIS TINY HANDS. And, of course, the metal legs striking out from his high chair chime when the skewers are struck against them. With a powerful tug from his strong little arms, the plastic bag was torn and wooden skewers flew all over the floor. They rolled under the stove and whisked into the living room. They were everywhere!
So, when you stroll past the skewers at the savings club at a price that completely disorients your reasoning, just move past 'em. Leave 'em alone. Trust me, Readers, there's few things more painful than a wooden lance piercing the skin of your unsuspecting feet as you stumble to the coffee pot.
So, Reader, I pray you listen to my advice. I only want what's best for you
I Love You,
Shonda

PS-- Please ignore the messy, cluttered kitchen in the background. It's really not always that way. Well, that's a lie. It is always that way.

Nothing Turns Me On More Than Sturdy Cookware

So, I went shopping for my birthday present with my grandma today. She, of course, wanted to get me a bra because that's what grandmotherly people always want to purchase for boulder bearers like myself. If your pimping a C cup or less, I'm sure you've never had this not-at-all-awkward convo with your female elders. But, if you are "blessed" as my cousin and I are, you undoubtedly have had the extreme pleasure of pulling your shirt up in front of strangers as your grandma rambled on about lifting and smoothing.
When Grandma called to schedule this underwear outing, she asked what else I would like for my upcoming birthday.
A skillet, I quickly replied.
A skillet? she quizzed.
Yes, a skillet.
For your birthday?
Yes, a skillet.
After Grandma generously dropped more cash on one bra than I have invested in ten others picked up in some discount bin, we went out in search of the perfect cookware. Now, fellas, you don't get an ass (or jugs, for that matter) this big if you don't take food preparation seriously. And, trust me, I take it, like, disassembling-the-live-bomb serious. Like the world's gonna combust if I don't master this lemon alfredo sauce serious.
We strolled down the aisle, first sailing past each beautiful skillet and then slowing down in front of our favorites. We held them above our heads, examining them against the light. We read dimensions and then compared that against its weight. If the store has a surveillance camera, I'm sure the geeky tech kid is gonna have a field day with that footage. (Yes, I'm calling someone else a geek. Let it go.)
After a solid 30 minutes of muling over our three favorites like we're adopting a kid from some foreign orphanage, we made our selection -- a dark, sleek lover I'm gonna make some beautiful, creamy, spicy music with.
Rowdy was home when I came in, a true oddity this time of year. I had a great time with Grandma and Rolan. On top of birthday prizes, she treated me with a delicious meal and, good Lord, Mississippi Mud Pie.
I burst in the house, beaming with pride for my new culinary find. I held my Extra Large Martha Stewart Fryer out toward him.
Check this out, baby. This bad boy's got a porcelain exterior. This is damn near 7 quarts of cooking right here. It was made with aluminized-steel construction for even heat distribution, I purred.
Then Rowdy said, You sound like some car junkie bragging about their wheels, Shonda.
What?
You know, like horsepower and cylinders. I mean, that's what you sound like.

Yeah, Rowdy think he's a damn comedian.
Madonna turned 50 today. I wonder what Madge is doing to commemorate half a century of life. Alex Rodriguez, perhaps? (I thought I'd use this post as a slimy opportunity to mention Madonna sexing it up with Alex Rodriguez. In case you haven't noticed, ads pop up with similar themes to my blogs, so I was hoping that those might be the catch words that ads grab. Let's do it one more time for good measure, Madonna may or may not be getting it on with A-Rod. Okay, I'm done shamelessly fishing for funny ads.)
Anyways, my birthdays isn't for a few more days, but my paryting will likely be limited to entertaining with my new cookware. I know many of you think I'm overexaggerating about my fun hater status, so if calling friends, who are no doubt drowning in boredom when talking to me, to share my excitement over my new skillet doesn't convince you, I don't know what will.
Also, please overlook any typos in this post. My giant boobs are pulled up to my eyeballs, so I can only see half the computer screen. Thank goodness for the fancy, new bra. These bitches are like weapons now!

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