Talking Burrito

Hey Kids.

I’m heading out on the road tomorrow to spend the weekend at Meatball’s roomie’s ranch.  Should be an awesome time.  Great people to hang out with and somebody told me they had a shooting range, which means I can finally try out the 38 special my brother gave me for Christmas last year.  It’s also rabbit season, so someones making chili…and that someone is me.

Naturally, I like to be prepared.  I’m like a boyscout, but you know… not gay.   So I put together a list of things to get and do before we leave.  After about the 4th item I started to think the list looked a bit incriminating.  Especially with the title I had given it.  Thought I’d share with you, reader…as well as make sure that this trip was documented in case I need an alibi for some reason.  Why would I need an alibi?  Why does anybody need an alibi until they do.  I just realized telling the interweb I’m going out of town, is not an alibi.  Guess I need a human for that.  Got confused.  Disregard.    List is pasted below.

ToDo Before Skipping Town:

1. Replace broken windshield
2. Pack revolver
3. Pack crock pot
4. Pickup case of booze
5. Don’t forget running clothes

BURRITO

Hey Kids.

I was reading an article in Women’s Health that offered a very simple and smart diet tip… “The same receptors that tell us we’re thirsty, tell us we’re hungry. So, next time you crave a slice of pizza, grab a thirst quencher instead. You might find you no longer want it.” I took their advice and today when I got a little antsy for a bite of banana I pumped the breaks and blended a sip worthy mikshake instead. You know….they were right! Don’t even want the banana now.

BURRITO

Hey Kids.

My pops, Chimichanga to all you newbees, was flying to our vacation home today.  He had the family dog, a tubby little Boston terrier named Roxy, with him in a “flight safe” pooch carrier.  As a stately Texas man carrying a tiny accent dog, naturally he draws a lot of attention.  Fed up with prying eyes and silly questions, he finally decided to start f-ing with people.  So, when a small child came up to him, pointed at the dog and asked, “what’s that?” Chimi sarcastically responded “Dinner.”

The little kid ran off terrified.

I love my dad.

BURRITO

Hey Kids.

Sometimes we do things we’re not proud of. This week has been a particularly packed one for me in that department and keeping them a secret is eating me up inside…that or I seriously need to pump the breaks on all the midnight diet coke floats.  So, I’m sharing these shames with you in an attempt to absolve myself. Be kind.

I ate a block of cheese for dinner.
I tipped a valet in quarters.
I wore work out clothes all day, and never worked out.
I rushed my mother off the phone when she was in a crisis so that I could watch Reality TV…on my DVR.
I spent a good portion of Tuesday morning looking at my high school rivals wedding pictures on facebook and criticizing her dress.
I ate another block of cheese for dinner.
I ran into my boyfriend’s ex. When he asked how she looked, I said her ass had gotten huge…it hadn’t.
I finally sat down to pay parking tickets that I got in January. The fees had quadrupled.
I told a racist joke to my black hairstylist.
I found a cat cute.
I was having a bad Wednesday, so I shared a bottle of wine with myself at lunch.
I ordered the movie HALL PASS “on demand.”
A toddler fell at the grocery store. And I laughed.
My boyfriend asked where all the cheese went and I told him it expired so I threw it out.

BURRITO

Hey Kids.

I like wine tastings. Makes me feel classy while I binge drink. It’s also a great place to pick up some fancy wine talk. Fancy wine talk is super useful, don’t roll your eyes at it. If you like to get a little toasty at swanky events, fancy wine talk is an excellent way to detour people you want to impress from your advanced state of drunkenness. I’ve often unexpectedly run into someone of great importance at a party half shit-canned and been able to distract them from my slurred state with an insightful quip about tannins.  A quip I probably picked up from some connoisseur pouring me a splash of Petite Syrah at a tasting.  Classic.

Unfortunately all this ingestion of fancy talk has lead me, on occasion, to believe I actually know what I’m talking about. Like when you tell a lie long enough you begin to believe it? That’s me with wine knowledge.

So, at a recent wine tasting, I stumbled upon an old favorite vino of mine that to my “knowledge” had recently gone to shit. I approached their booth well sauced and decided I should tell them this. They needed to know and would appreciate my candor…especially since I knew so many fancy things about wine.

“OH MY GOD! Y’ALL! I used to LOVE your Sauvignon Blanc.”
“Thank you! That’s great to hear!”
“USED to. It USED to be my favorite, but I don’t know what happened in the past couple of years it’s kind of gone down hill. What’s up?”
“We have a new winemaker and–”
“Yipes! Well no bueno, new guy. Am I right?!”
“–and this is him. He might be able to answer some of your questions.”

The guy on the right signaled to the guy on the left. His smile stayed intact, but his eyes went from kind to killer.

“Hi, I’m Stephen: The Winemaker.”
“I am so sorry. Seriously. I have a terrible pallet. I don’t know what I’m talking about.”
“No no. It’s fine. I’m sure you have a great pallet.”
“I don’t. I was probably smoking or something last time I tried it. I used to smoke. Disgusting habit. Who does that? ME! I’m disgusting.”
“Honestly, you’re making it worse. Don’t worry about it.”

About that time Meatballs rolled up.

“MEATBALLS! This is my boyfriend, Meatballs. He has an amazing pallet. Give him a taste.”

They poured him a taste and I scream whispered to him to tell them how amazing it was even if it tasted like shit. He didn’t skip a beat.

“It’s really nice, guys. Honestly, crisp. Good finish.”
“See!” I screamed. “It’s just ME!”
“We know you told him to say that. We could hear you whispering.”
“Y’all are funny. This is funny.”

Meatballs grabbed my hand and politely lead me away.

“Now what did you do?” He asked. Usually I get defensive when people assume things are my fault, but this time I couldn’t even feign shock.  It was all me.
“I insulted the wine to the winemaker’s face BEFORE I knew he was the winemaker, obviously.”
“Obviously. Well don’t worry about it, you’ll probably never see him again.”

It was then I noticed Meatballs was palming a very nice bottle of red.

“Did you just buy that?” I asked.
“No! Actually the guy who makes it recognized me from college. We had a good chat so he gave me a bottle.”
“Man alive, you’re sexy when you score free booze.”
“Thank you, darling.”
“I just feel lacking now, like I need to score free booze too. Bring something to the table.”
“Go for it. Bring home the bacon for daddy!”
“What?”
“I just like talking white trash to you about money.”
“Oh. Cool. I’ll git-r-done…then. But, I’m not as charming as you. This could be hard.”
“I’m sure you’ll figure something out. You’re very knowledgeable.”
“That’s true.”

About an hour later, sans free bottle, I had tasted myself into a good functional coma and was ready to break the seal. I made my way to the restrooms. The line was small, save for one person.

“Phew. Thought the line was going to be uncomfortable,” I chuckled to the loner in front of me.

Then he turned around and revealed himself…it was the Stephen, the winemaker I so joyfully insulted earlier.

“Phew is right.” He said.
“Wow. It’s the guy I insulted. This is…wow…………I really am sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
“You know it was probably the grapes. Or the weather! I heard that region got an unusual amount of rain for the last couple of seasons and sometimes it can effect–”
“It’s the technique.”
“It’s the technique.”
“What?”
“YOU SAID IT!”
“You’re a trip, you know that?”
“I have no idea what I’m talking about.”
“Well you sure act like you do.”

The toilet flushed and the commode opened up. He signaled for me to go ahead of him.

“Oh no, you were here first.”
“I insist.” He said.
“No.”
“JUST GO.”
“Okay.”

I peed faster than lightning while ranting “it was probably just like one barrel that was off and I got two bottles from that barrel. I just need to try a different bottle from a different barrel, see.” When I emerged, he stopped me in the doorway.

“Come by the booth before you leave and I’ll give you a bottle.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously. Just stop talking about it.”

I collected my booty from his booth and galloped over to Meatballs, waving the wine like a trophy.

“GUESS WHAT!?”
“What?”
“I got a free bottle of wine!”
“Good for you, hot mamma.”
“What did you call me?”
“It’s the white trash money thing, forget it. Did you extract it from them with your fancy wine talk?”
“Errrrrrrm yes. Sure did.”

BURRITO

Hey Kids.

I’m sitting in bed watching TMNT (that’s the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles for those of you geriatrics). Leonardo is rocking his shit, per usual.

My head is pounding due to an evening of unplanned drinking. I must say that when I woke up this morning fully dressed, hazy, and covered in mustard….I felt at home. It’s been serious business since I decided to break Lent. After weighing the pros and cons I realized I was actually doing a disservice to JC by nixing the very blood that ran through his veins. So wine is back on the list. Also, I was substituting my nightly glass of pinot with a bag of tortilla chips and spoonfuls of Nutella. Whoever said, “cutting alcohol out of your diet will help you lose weight” must have had an endorsement deal with Tostitos.

My first morning-after recollection came to me in the classic “did I dream that” form. It was a piece memory of a heated fight with my debt collector. She, as it were, has been calling me at increasingly odd hours. Her former mistake was calling early in the morning, no doubt hoping to catch me before I took off for work. What a loser for thinking I work. You’re a debt collector get a clue! Smarty wised up though and hit my Achilles heel: late night on a weekend. I always answer the phone after 11pm on a weekend. #A because booty calls are guaranteed ego boosters and #B because I’m usually drunk and lonely. Before I go any further let me just say that this is a debt with Cedar Sinai for $48.72 that I refuse to pay because they refuse to tell me what it is for. I’m no hypochondriac, but I don’t hesitate to see the MD. How many times have we heard the ‘ol “yesterday she said she felt like she had a cold and today she woke up dead!” I’m no sucker. I survived a meningitis scare in College. I think I know what I’m talking about. So I’ve accrued quite a few medical bills in my time. These days I spend more money at Cedar Sinai than Barneys (which is sad for me), but I always know what I’m getting…usually grade “A” psychoanalysis. This one seems weird. $48.72? What quack doctor charges less than $50 for….well anything. So this is what I’m dealing with.

“Ms. Burrito?” she says condescendingly into the phone. “Who is this?” I say extremely disappointed to hear a female voice. “Is this Ms. Burrito?” So she keeps asking me to verify who I am and I keep telling her to send me an itemized bill and she says she can’t send me an itemized bill until I confirm who I am. This went on for quite some time. I’m pretty sure there was yelling from my end and a vague attempt to explain identity theft and how people can clone credit cards with tiny spy cameras. She eventually caved and vowed to call at another time when I was more “lucid” whatever that means.

I figured I bought myself ‘til Monday. That ho definitely aint calling back this weekend. Nice work Burrito. Phew that last story was exhausting. I gotta take a shower and get ready for brunch. I hate meeting people for meals that take place before 7pm, but my fellow diners have guaranteed daytime drinking so I might be able to get on board. Later.

BURRITO

Hey Kids.

Meatballs is my new love.

I call him Meatballs because he really digs spaghetti and meatballs…and because “Meatballs” is an awesome Ivan Reitman movie starring Bill Murray.   Meatballs is an adventurer with a great sense of humour and zest for life.  He read Talking Burrito and didn’t break up with me, so that’s good.  He also has two cats.  I guess nobody is perfect.

Meatballs and I were at Pork Sausage’s wedding in Santa Barbara recently and decided to cash in on a couples massage gift certificate she had given me for my birthday a few weeks earlier.    I was slammed with bridesmaid stuff, so Meatballs made the appointment.  He got a deep tissue for himself and a swedish for me.   I thought this was a little odd as the point of a couples massage is to be relaxed and feel-good together, but he’s a hoss so I figured don’t question the man.

When the masseuses arrived at our hotel room I noticed that one was considerably larger than the other and when I say considerably larger I mean she was at least 6’5″ and had hands the size of frying pans.

“Meatballs,” the large one barked in a baritone voice.  “I’m Victoria.”  She smiled demonically then announced “You’re with me.”

He climbed under the covers with slight hesitancy which ended up being an accurate internal instinct because 10 minutes later I was getting lavender oil gently rubbed into my shoulders by a delicate Asian woman and he was getting body slammed into a neck pillow by Jaws from James Bond.

“Just when you thought you could relax,” she cackled.  Not what you want to hear from your masseuse.  Then I heard something pop and the muffled silence of Meatballs trying not to ruin my swedish moment by screaming in pain.

Over the next 40 minutes Victoria would punctuate that silence with masochistic phrases like “Do you hate me yet?” and “Hurts so good, doesn’t it?” then there was my personal favorite  “You’re going to be walking funny all afternoon.”

When our time was up and Victoria had finally left, I turned to Meatballs and asked him point blank if he’d ever had a deep tissue massage before.  He hadn’t.

“I’m in so much pain right now,”  he said remorsefully and with a lilt in his step (she wasn’t kidding).  “I kept looking over at you and you had lotion and she was doing gentle circular rubbing things with her elbow.  It looked so nice.”

“Ah Meatballs, I didn’t realize you had never had a deep tissue massage before.  I would have warned you.”

“I wish you had.”

“Well now you know.”

I think the lesson here is if your massuse looks like Richard Kiel you might want to reschedule.  Just a thought.

BURRITO

Hey Kids,

The other night, I had dinner with a lovely couple who had recently gotten engaged.  As expected, conversation eventually turned to the proposal.  How did he do it?  Was she surprised?

They were both professional writers so, naturally, they had an affinity for the game Scrabble. During one afternoon game he proposed by spelling out the words “WILL YOU MARRY ME” on the board.  Very clever.  Very romantic.  At least for them.*

“I didn’t even finish spelling out the phrase! I only got through ‘WILL YOU’ and she screamed ‘Yes!’,” he said

“Well, he was so nervous.  I knew something was up,” she coyly added.

“What if he wasn’t asking you to marry him?!  That would have been embarrassing!” I laughed at this notion to myself while stuffing some shrimp down my face.  “That would suck if he was really spelling out ‘WILL YOU FORGIVE ME, I SLEPT WITH YOUR SISTER.’”

There was an uncomfortable chuckle throughout the group followed by long drags of wine.  Maybe not as amusing to them.  Duly noted.

But, it did get me thinking about something: What if people broke up with each other the same way they proposed to them?

You look up on a jumbotron at a baseball game and it says “Jessica, I don’t love you anymore.” A prop plane flies by with a banner waving behind it that reads “It’s not you, it’s me.”  Maybe you’re at dinner and a waiter dramatically removes the silver dome from your plate to reveal the words “MOVE OUT” spelled in chocolate.  Or, my personal horror fest, you come home to a trail of rose petals and candles that lead to a note with the scribbled phrase “You’re not the one.  Lets have sex one more time, friend.”

It’s kind of funny to think about it in terms of a break up, but can you imagine terminating a marriage that way?  Instead of proposing to start a life together with a ring…they’re proposing to end it with divorce papers.  “Meet me atop the Empire State Building at sunset.  I’ll be carrying a single rose…and manilla envelope. P.S. Bring my grandmother’s ring.”

Yipes.

I recently got an invitation to a post proposal party…at least I think it is.  The invite read “I’ll be attempting ‘the plunge’ this Friday.  Assuming everything goes well, please join us afterwards for a celebratory cocktail.”

After thinking about this breakup/proposal notion, a small part of me is hoping she’ll come home and flick on the lights to find him on one knee screaming “Surprise!  I’m a homosexual!” then present her with jazz hands instead of a velvet box.

Probably not the case, but it would still be a good party.  If your significant other is going to break your heart…it seems only fair that he would supply you with booze, cake, and half naked men to platonically disco dance with.

Just a thought.

BURRITO

*I was am very dyslexic.  Back in grade school, bad smelling tutors used to make me play Scrabble with them as a form of “therapy” in lieu of after school activities.  Now, where some see an exciting game of creativity and wit, I see a stolen childhood.

Hey Kids!

I have a habit of naming parts of myself that I take issue with or just plain don’t like: pimples, a bad hair cut, extra weight. This way I can hate an aspect of myself without actually hating myself. I’m much better at blaming someone else for my problems, anyway. Just ask my shrink….or my mother.

For example, I call my extra weight “Janet.” When I eat too much ice cream and my thighs rub together I just say “DAMN IT JANET” or “MISS JACKSON” if it’s nasty. I went through a period of time when I thought I would look sexy as a red head. And if your definition of sexy is a dirty Russian whore, then yes I did. Until I got it back to a semblance of normal color I called my hair “Olga.” When my dating life slowed and my love of vodka got excessive, I blamed Olga (she was such a drunk whore).

This strange habit started in college when, one sunny Sunday, I made my first and last attempt at becoming bulimic. I quickly learned that self-start vomiting was harder than those skinny bitches in my sorority made it look. With them it was so adorably natural, like a little baby burping. Alas, when I tried to pull the proverbial trigger, I looked like Schwarzenegger in “Total Recall.” Not as cute.

All that straining caused a blood vessel to pop in my eye and those things don’t just disappear. They get bigger and bigger until your entire eye is blood red. If I was auditioning as the host of a zombie virus a la “28 Days Later,” I would have been set. But, I wasn’t. I was going to college parties and trying to pull tail. So, instead of telling the truth about my botched bulimia, I just told everyone that this shit in my eye was a bitch named “Poppy” who’d crashed my brain and made me do crazy things like wear mid-drift bearing lace dresses and take beer bongs…often at the same time.

It became an ongoing joke I could bask in rather than hide from. It worked so well that a mildly attractive frat guy actually tried to get with me. He said he’d never had a “threesome.” I think he wanted to cum in my eye, so I respectfully declined.

Still, it had opened up a whole new world to me. Why should I be self-conscious about my blemishes when I could make them someone else and mock them out right? I’m really good at judging other people. So now I use my weakness to play to my strength.

Recently a pimple named “George” decided to visit my face unannounced. When I went out, he’d come too and I’d introduce myself as “Burrito and this is my pimple, George.” People would greet him with aplomb and my boyfriend even kissed him goodnight. Eventually he got the memo and moved on. We parted ways on good terms, although I have been meaning to talk to my boyfriend about etiquette and face guests.

Earlier today Pork Sausage texted me. She was a bit testy, claiming that I gave her my pimple. “Oh no, no that’s not me,” I said. “That’s George.”

BURRITO

Hey Kids.

I just called Ceviche to run a joke by her for this stand up show I’m doing in a few days. I could tell she was wine wasted because her reaction to my joke was this….

“I get it. (no laugh)” So I was at this antique store today and they had the most beautiful coffee table books about big penises.”
“Excuse me?!”
“They…it was full of beautiful artsy pictures of big penises. It was called ‘Big Penises’”
“Artsy? Am I hearing this correctly?”
“Big penises from all time periods. The 20s and 30s.”
“Are you saying penis? Like a man’s penis?”
“Yes, they were beautiful.”
“The books or the penises?”
“The books. Both. And then they had this other one full of old breasts.”
“Like old women’s breasts or like old pictures of breasts.”
“Like from all time periods.”
“Mom, you’re wasted.”
“No but they were beautiful.”
“You’re talking to me about beautiful penis books. You’re wasted.”
“You’re being mean.”
“I’m not having this conversation with you.”
“Would you like one?”
“Like what? A big penis or old breasts?”
“A penis book.”
“LISTEN TO YOU! YOU JUST ASKED ME IF I WOULD LIKE A PENIS BOOK! YOU’RE WASTED!”
“Well, I’m sorry I asked.”
“Me too.”

She got off the phone in a huff. I honestly can’t believe somehow I’ve been pegged as the crazy one this time.

BURRITO