Yum-NO.

You're assuming I'm going to make fun of Rachael's tremendously beefy thighs which clearly have no business being in a magazine, let alone a magazine which men jerk off to.
But I'm not.
I was just watching her heinously clunky food network show, and she prepared "a meal you could even serve to your boss!"
Now, obviously Rachael's life resembles ZERO of what her life was like before she was hand-picked by Oprah to be the next shrieky, fat media-mogul for middle-america to worship. But now that Ra-Ray's life includes first-class flights, Dunkin Donuts shoots, and speculations over her dead marriage in The National Enquirer (btw: it totally is), someone should alert her to the fact that no one actually "has" their boss over for dinner. I think Ashton Kutcher may have done it in some frightful film with Tara "Don't look directly at my pelvis or boobs or you'll go permanently blind" Reid, but that's it. It doesn't happen in real life. I feel like if she's going to tout her self as an 'everyday gal' she should have a handler who describes what 'everyday' is like.

Look, don't try and call me on watching her show even though I hate her.
Appreciate the fact that I research that which I excoriate.