Oct 27 2011


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.


Oct 5 2011


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.


Jul 27 2011

Breaking Lent

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.


Jul 14 2011

A Different Proposal

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.”


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.


*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.

Dec 6 2010

Wine Wasted

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.”
“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.


Oct 25 2010

Throw Like a Girl

Hey Kids.

The Burrito has taken up MMA. For those of you who aren’t hip to the acronym, MMA stands for Mixed Martial Arts. It’s a lovely way to get my sweat on, work out aggression, and develop a skill. It also secretly gratifies my inner desire to one day be the star of an action movie.

Sometimes I feel like a sexy cool bad ass a la Angelina Jolie in Tomb Radar.

There will be a moment when I’ll successfully throw some complicated twisty kick while lightly sweating in a boobalicious number. A tendril of hair will separate itself from my braid and land menacingly across my eye.  Then I’ll exhale with a sexual “ha!”

But, these moments are rare and almost always happens when nobody is around to watch.

Rather the norm is a picture more like this: I’ll be pitting out in what I’ve come to know as the lady triangle (under both boobs and inner crotch), bangs will be frizzed and dirty (creating a hallo for that fresh pimple on my forehead), the outfit will look less boobalicious and more gut-a-licious, and my trainer will be yelling “give it to me, hard” as I ram him in the man parts with a swift knee screaming “NO!”

THAT, my friends, is when a super hot dude will walk in to use the speed bag.

I’m like Buffy the Vampire Slayer, if Buffy’s real name was Blobby and she slayed unarmed carjackers.

To save myself from massive disappointment, I’ve given up on permanently summoning my inner Angelina.  Instead I’ve put focus on something I actually may be able to achieve: developing the skills to go tit for tat in this male dominated art.  I have actually gotten pretty good. Except for one consistent hitch in my training…

Up until a few weeks ago, I kept injuring my right wrist throwing a cross in boxing.  Simple classic adjustments were not helping.  So my trainer and I started taking off the gloves and breaking down what I was doing.   After a moment of assessment, the problem became clear: turns out I’m getting hurt because….I throw like a girl.

After all the kicking and punching and elbowing and kneeing and eye gouging and head butting and arm bars, nothing could save me from my femininity.

Apparently it only likes to rear it’s head when I need it least.

What a metaphor for my life.


Feb 22 2010

The difference between crazy and Crazy

Hey Kids

I’m sure NONE of you will be shocked to hear that I see a shrink.  And will be un-floored even more to hear that my shrink’s office is in a psychiatric hospital, not a business high rise with a a nice waiting room and day sofa, an in-patient psychiatric hospital fully equipped with padded walls and straight jackets.

There is one tiny office where the head of the hospital sees out patients on a casual basis.  I believe that casual basis involves me and two other people.  I feel special….in both the good and bad way.    His office is on the top floor, right outside two large metal doors that you need a special ID and finger print to get into.  I can only assume it’s where they keep the serious crazies.   Sometimes being on the floor of this building makes me feel normal and pulled together.  It reminds me to snap out of it cause, no matter how big my mother issues are, theirs are probably worse.  Other times I feel a mere hop, skip, and jump away from loony…literally.

It took me a while to be comfortable with a doctor of this caliber listening to me bitch about how hard it is to be an actress when a mere 20 yards away some lady is having full blown conversations with her dead cat, but eventually I convinced myself that he enjoyed a break from the schizos and psychos. This is me assuming that spending an entire hour talking about eliminating red meat from my diet is a break from the psychos.

So, besides me and the two other “casual basis” peeps, everyone at the hospital is either a patient or works there.  Naturally when I’m seen by other employees walking around without a hospital gown covered in paste, they assume I’m one of them.   You should see their f-ing faces when I tell them otherwise!  HAHA.

Today I came out of the office and was waiting for the elevator.  Some hot shot male nurse eyed me ( I’m attractive, btw.  I know I don’t always make that clear) and I could tell he was waiting to make his move.  Finally, just before the doors open he goes, “Hey….so you just start working here?”

“No,” I go.  ”I don’t work here”

“YET… you don’t work here yet.  Interviewing for a job?”

“No, definitely not interviewing for a job.”  Then I kind of chuckled in a sinister way.

“Oh.”  He looked concerned and then I laid it on him.

“I just got out.”

His face went ashen just as the doors opened and we stepped into the elevator.  He looked like he’d finally realized I was Dexter or something.  I just stood in the corner and practiced this acting technique I’d learned the week before where you stare at something but think of something else and mumble.  It’s suppose to make you look possessed.

It worked.

That guy bolted as soon as the doors opened.  I don’t even think it was his floor.

That’ll teach him to hit on newbies.



Aug 27 2009

Freaks on Parade

Hey Kids!

So, I get to a party for the NYC Fringe Festival and its totally living up to everything I expected.  Freaks on parade.  Don’t gimme wrong.  I’m at the party too, but lets be honest.  There are actors and there are thespians.  Those kids at school who did theatre and those kids in school who were theatre.   I’m not saying I’m too cool, I’m just saying I showed up with a leather jacket and a few postcards to network and they showed up in sequined tuxes and a few puppets.  I ordered a grey goose soda, they ordered something “fruity and cheap.”  I actually heard a 40 something year old man with wire glasses and a back pack say this.  I assumed he probably wrote and directed some musical about fairies in the 18th century or was the uni-bombers gay cousin.

BUT, I gotta give it up.  One thing those crazies did have going for them was shameless hawking.  While I showed up with a couple dozen postcards, they showed up with a couple hundred thousand.  I soon realized that I may drink nicer vodka, but those losers had me beat on the marketing tip.  T-shirts, posters, postcards, cup holders, signs.  I tucked into the bathroom to brainstorm a last minute marketing ploy and emerged with a carefully nestled postcard squeezed into my sparse but nicely tanned cleavage.  About that time I turned the corner and ran smack into foxy guy.  He and I looked like we belonged at a different club.

“Nice digs,” I said noting his leather jacket.
“Nice sign,” he said noting my boobified postcard.
“A thank you very much!”
“What you drinking?”
“Vodka Soda.”
“Up for another one?”

I liked this guy: always drinking, always buying.

“Sure,” I said with lackluster flirtation.  I could slack in this crowd.

After another drink we went outside to smoke a cigarette.  God bless a man who smokes the occasional cigarette.  I hate full-time smokers, I am not a full-time smoker.  It smells and is generally disgusting.  BUT well placed, a social cigarette can make a night. Mainly because It  breaks up the monotomy of drinking.  This has several benefits: a) It slows you down on the tipsy scale, but keeps you from looking like a pussy b) If you only smoke occasionally then you are sure to get a little nicotine buzz…which is nice. c) It serves as a perfect excuse when you want to get away from someone annoying, but most importantly d) it serves as a perfect excuse when you wanna get QT with someone who is on your radar.  This time we made sure to swap numbers.
Yet,  as we were standing on the even keeled sidewalk of New York’s Gay Ass Chelsea neighborhood, I noticed something crucial.  He was a bit short.  I never intended on making anything out of foxy guy, but still.  Somehow after numerous years of bad relationships with short guys (I can say this because I really gave ‘em a go), I have to say I find it a bit unattractive. Not in a personal way, I’m just tired of feeling rude just because I want to He tried to coax me out for a late night hang, but I’d already made up my mind.

I fought off two drag queens and a zombie puppeteer to get a cab, but made it back to the hotel in time to get a solid 6 hours.  Just as I was about to drift off I recieve a text from foxy guy that read “Good to see you again.  Too short though.”

Couldn’t have said it better myself.


Jun 26 2009

For how many?

Hey Kids.

Whats up with take out giving you two sets of utensils for one meal?  Nothing makes me feel like more of a heffer.


May 14 2009

Talking Burrito on Twitter

Hey Kids!

Burrito is now on twitter. Be the first, or second, to get on board. It’s like talkingburrito but smaller….. I call it burritotalk…. mainly because some ass wipe took talkingburrito. By his profile I’m guessing its a creepy teenage boy. Mainly because his color motif is black and red, has no fans, and is only following Dr. Drew. SO, don’t be fooled. Go to www.twitter.com/burritotalk to follow the real deal.