The Drawer of Shame and Other Assorted Oddities

Fletch and I have a love/hate relationship with infomercials – he hates them and I love them. For me, I pretty much want whatever product they're pitching. When I used to roll home after the bar closed in college, I'd watch infomercials until dawn because I was powerless to turn them off. A special paint brush that reaches those hard to reach corners? The fruit dehydrator? Susan Powter urging me to stop the insanity? A tonic used to straighten black women's hair that's so non-toxic you can actually taste it without dying? The Principal Secret? OMG, yes, yes, yes, yes, and yes!! I imagine that because I was young, drunk, and more than a tad stupid, I was the target market for these infomercial makers. Unfortunately I'd maxed my credit cards years previous, so I was never liquid enough to actually purchase treasures such as the Roli Poli storage containers. (Storage containers! That ROLL!!) As for Fletch, between the terrible acting and the exaggerated incompetence, he feels infomercials are an insult to everyone's intelligence. So now I love infomercials even more because watching Fletch get mad is always funny. "Who can't crack an egg?" he'll fume. "Blankets aren't that complicated! And it's just a backwards robe, you idiot!" "Seriously? They can't peel a cucumber without stabbing themselves? Seriously?" "Oh, noes! I can't work this Saran Wrap! Look at my butter–fingers! Somebody help me!" This leads us to Tuesday night where we've just finished a lovely dinner of flank steaks wrapped...