Help Me R. Kelly, You're My Only Hope

This weekend I finally got my act together and washed the pots and pans that my mama got me for Christmas and they were . . .

well . . .used.

USED, y'all. As in scorched and warped on the bottom and dried food in the pans used.

So those fuckers got returned. And replaced with some very shiny stainless steel ones. I have never had anything but cheap and crappy non-stick which apparently causes cancer and even though I have had to rush to the internet for reassurance that I am going to be ok without Teflon I am pretty stoked about it.

If I can get visions of nasty pans scoured out of my brain.

I also realized this weekend that though my husband is a eighth degree nerd belt he is sadly behind on his trashy pop culture. He spends all that time on video games and misses out on Tori Spelling's affair and new marriage. He had no idea that Playboy had a reality show. And he had never seen TRAPPED IN A CLOSET.

Let us all have a moment of silence in awe for the cultural achievement that R. Kelly brought us this year.

Just looking at that list I feel like my IQ has plummeted and I might need to take an SAT course or something.

Or possibly reading comprehension. Because our company health plan changes came in the mail today and JEEBUS. I think I need to change plans because one covers infertility better than the other and something something and man it just freaks me out because I am sure that no matter what I do I am fucking screwed.

I wonder if I call R. Kelly he would read the pamphlet to me.

Trapped in an HMO would make an excellent song really.