Just until my rap career takes off.

That's right, I've decided what I want to do with my life. Thank you E! entertainment televisions and Forbes Top 20 Hip Hop High Rollers (or something like that).
I am going to release a nice rap album with a catchy hook, so I can get all those downloads and then I'll parlay that into a clothing line/crunk drink/luxury car rental entreprenueresque something something.
I mean, the number 20 guy earned something like 10 million.
It'll be a great gimic, the rappin' momma, look for it soon on Itunes.
NOW, on to brownier business.
The first (un)official Chocolate meth reviews are in and it does not look good.
Ghiradelli Caramel Turtle Brownies are around 2.50 a box (which is steep for mix it yourownself brownies, IMO) and they could only possibly have less chocolate flavor if they were not chocolate.
This makes me sad :(.
Waste of an egg actually.
I will say this, the problem (for me) may have also been the prescence of walnut, which is not my favority brownie nut, I'm more pecans in brownies, but I will plow ahead.
It should also be noted that brownies generally only last about 24 hours total in our house, these lasted the entire weekend and then I took pity and (gasp!) fed them to the cat.
Tomorrow isDuncan Hines Double Chocolate Chocolate- lovers which were only 1.78 at Wal-Mart so hopefully in this case cheaper will be better.
Now, for my third and final choice for the Erma Bombeck Writing contest.
The irreversible evolution of panties starts young. I can already see the sad signs of undergarment preoccupation in my five year old, who flat out refuses to wear Days of the Week underwear that do not match said calendar day. These are the things that can make or break potty-training. This is not about underwear for the wee ones; however, it’s about big girl underwear. More accurately, the evolutions of said undies.
When I was dating my beloved, I literally collected underwear. All kinds of frilly and frothy wisps of lace and satin. You may think I’m kidding, but into our first apartment we moved something like seven hundred pair of panties. Addicted to the adorable I was, but then, the inevitable occurred, I got pregnant.
I was thrilled, I was ecstatic, I was unaware the state of underneath my clothes was about to drastically change. Never one of those women who simpered over a salad under normal conditions, I took to pregnancy the way an elephant might. Eating roughly the weight of a pachyderm each day, I became well versed in the weight gain joy of pregnancy.
The tiny thongs were the first to go. I couldn’t bear to part with them, so I simply packed them away for after.
Fast forward six years, three pregnancies and timeless hours spent nursing later, I couldn’t find those thongs with a map and a handy-dandy thong locator (if such a thing exists, I doubt it’s been invented, men would much rather stand in line to volunteer for this position).
I can however, locate quite a few pair of sensible cotton ‘granny panties’. I, for a while, referred to them laughingly as my ‘fat panties.’ I am well aware that my betrothed is fondly reminiscent of the bygone days of the thong, but I ignore it, reasoning that well, one day they will surely return. And they have, in bits and spurts; I’ve added some cute panties back into the mix. But to be perfectly honest, I like my fatpanties. They are comfy; they don’t squeeze, chafe, or disappear into sensitive parts of my anatomy.
Of course I miss her, the vampy vixen whose bra always matched her panties, but let’s face it, she’s got lasagnas to make and carpooling to do, she can’t be stopping every ten minutes to dig, push and adjust. Until my children are grown and I get some serious plastic surgery, she may just have to make do with frump more often than not.

This one is one of my favorite shorts, but I'm not sure it's right.
Let me know what you think..R