Dear Pampered Chef,

I am writing to you today to explain why I will no longer feel like a whole person.

Several years ago, a former employer, who also became a friend, invited me to a Pampered Chef party she was hosting. I obliged, mainly because I wanted to see my friend. I chose not to go alone as rooms of housewives intimidate me in ways you can only imagine. My good friend, Amy #1 kindly agreed to come with me. Before the party, we met for a drink and she coached me on what was going to happen: cooking demo, pass around some gadgets, have some snacks, everyone chit chat about what they love about Pampered Chef, play some games to win a melon baller or similar small kitchen item, and then the Zinger. The Zinger is the most dreaded part of the whole party. The sales associate does two things in one fell swoop; she asks you to host a party and tries to get you to join the company. All I want are some wooden spoons, for Pete's sake. I am not looking for a job or to con my friends into spending their hard earned cash on things that are trying to kill them. Oh yes, I will get to that part.

For years after the party, the sales associate sent me poorly crafted emails that switched text color every sentence. They were not only offensive to my brain and pocketbook, but also to my eyes. After repeatedly requesting to be removed from her distribution list, I finally had to block her email address!

I will say that in the years since the party, I have enjoyed my bamboo spoons, soap pump, and occasionally the mandolin. I used the mandolin to slice perfectly uniform fries. That's about it. As you probably know, the mandolin has an attachment that the user is supposed to attach to the potato or whatever is being sliced, to protect fingers from the very sharp blades. But, this attachment seems to have a design flaw, in that it cannot hold anything. Ok, maybe 1/4 of a cucumber, but certainly not part of a potato or tomato. So, I have repeatedly chosen to put my fingers in danger for the sake of perfect baked fries.

Up until last night, the Pac House injuries from the mandolin have included one sliced finger and a missing finger nail for me and my husband cut into his index finger as well. The cake was taken by last night's injury though. As I was slicing a sweet potato, my sis-in-law commented that she was just waiting for an accident, as the slicing process was looking a little laborious. Just then, my thumb slipped and was sliced by the gleaming blade. One choice four-letter word exited my mouth as I took stock of the mandolin's work.

My thumb was sliced to the bone or something white/grayish that I perceived as the bone.

In honor of the blood I lost last night and possible dexterity loss, I threw the Pampered Chef mandolin in the trash. Please understand why I had to sacrifice the mandolin for the pain, anguish, and loss that it has caused me. Please warn all of your sales consultants to keep my name and email addresses off of their guest lists. I will not have pleasant stories to share at their parties.

Best regards,
ADP