Aug 2 2011

Fancy Wine Talk

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!”
“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.”
“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.

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. Just stop talking about it.”

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

“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.”



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.


Nov 28 2010


Hey Kids.

Recently Ceviche and I decided to do this juice fast. I don’t know what ancient fruit pie decided to call depriving yourself of solid food a fast because when you’re not eating, time is anything but. I’ve yet to meet one person comment on the “oh too fleeting moments” of starvation… “The days just flew by! Enjoy it why you can!”

No! College is fast. Sluts are fast. Fasting is a slow painful torture.

I’ve been having tummy troubles and wanted to kick start some serious weight loss so, thought I’d Gwyneth it up for a few days with an all liquid diet. Nothing too hard core, but enough to get me going. Ceviche claimed she was up for the challenge too and out of the three levels of juicing we chose to go full throttle with “evacuation” level (yes, I realize now how dumb that sounds). Accepting Ceviche’s camaraderie became an apparent mistake when, on the eve of our fast, I watched her polish off two open bottles of chardonnay from my fridge.

“It’s liquid!” she quipped at me when I gave her a judgy look. “I don’t want your wine to go to waste!” Such a martyr.
“We’re supposed to be prepping. Fruits and vegetables only.”
“Honestly Burrito, I don’t have to tell you what wine is made of. You have a degree.”

Later Cevche would use this same defense on day two of our “evacuation” when I came home to find her lying on the sofa with kale juice in her left hand and pinot grigio in her right. Both were delicately poured into expensive Italian wine glasses (classy touch). She alternated sips of each while engaging in a marathon of Keeping up with the Kardashians on E!

“We’re cleansing our bodies, not our minds,” she pointed out with great confidence. “I like Kris Jenner’s hair cut. Would it look good on me?”

It was at that point that I knew delirium was beginning to set in. I’ve told her repeatedly that a pixie cut would not look good on her unless she lost at least 15 pounds. I tactfully reminded her of this.

“No it wouldn’t, fatty.”
“I AM fasting.”
“Well, in that case. By all means.” I swear to God my life is lush with contrarians. But of them all, my mother takes the cake.
“I don’t think I will,” she resolved. “If I cut my hair like that, people would ask me if the chemo was working (quick sip of Kale). It looks cute on her though (long sip of pinot).”

They say when you fast you experience jolts in energy and clarity of mind. Ceviche and I found this to be complete bullshit. Rather, we were so tired and unfocused we walked around like dyslexic zombies. I’ve never done hard drugs before, but I imagine this is what it must feel like coming off of them.

The only thing that we could successfully concentrate on for more than five minutes was planning our first meal, like POWs dreaming of life back home. “First thing I’m gonna do is kiss by block of blue cheese and tear open some tortilla chips. I swear I’ll never take them for granted again!” We were beginning to sound like a lost scene from The Shawshank Redemption, so Ceviche and I decided to focus our attention on something else and get out of the house to shop.

Shopping usually does the trick, but regrettably we chose to shop for furniture. Furniture shopping proved to be a nearly impossible task of discerning as our fatigued foodless bodies found every chair we sat in the most comfortable chairs we’d ever sat in our whole lives…and that includes a wrought iron bar stool.

When we tried to buy a bench that looked like a left over set piece from Beetlejuice the sales lady cautioned us and suggested we go home and “eat on it.” We nodded at her with a vacant sociopathic stare and drug our sluggish bodies back to the car. Driving home I nearly ran off the road twice. We found this hilarious. Wrong reaction?

The next morning I woke at 5 am to the creepy feeling of cannibalism. Ceviche was staring at me like I was a burger so I tossed on some Uggs and ran our asses to the nearest café. True to the “breaking your fast” instructions we stuffed our faces with raw organic fruits and vegetables….. As soon as we polished a couple plates of those off we had eggs, oatmeal, coffee, and whole-wheat toast….with butter…and jam…and hollandaise.

Suddenly my world came into focus…. And after taking in the joy of being able to see color again I was faced with the reality of our appearance. We were in our pajamas, sans make up, both bra-less. Jesus. A small girl with a Bratz doll was staring at me like I was homeless.

“Oh you think I’m pathetic! Bratz dolls went out like 3 years ago.” I shoved the marooned mint garnish in my mouth and grabbed Ceviche.

“Come on! Lets go weigh ourselves!”

As we speed-walked back to my place to put on some proper clothes, Ceviche chimed in with newly found pep…

“I feel great! These cleanses really work!”
“I know! It went by so fast!”


Sep 4 2010

I need a stiff bagel

Hey Kids.

Some people need a drink after an intense experience.  I need a bagel.

The crazy thing is, the calories are about the same…at least with the way I pour a cocktail.

Sober and full of carbs,

Feb 4 2010

Lets go see a Boozie

Hey Kids.

So lately I’ve really gotten into sneaking bottles of wine to the movies.  It’s very exhilarating AND practical.  The thing is, I always find myself wasting loads of calories on popcorn or candy during some shitty RomCom, when I’m actually jonesing for a glass of chard.  Therefore I resolved to have what I really want at the cinema….booze.

It started last year when PS and I smuggled two bottles of pinot grigio into the Sex and the City movie.  As first timers we were a bit loud and obvious, clanking the bottles during a dramatic moment and fumbling with empty soda cups we’d purchased at the concession stand.  But, we still pulled it off.  And given the movie, I feel fairly confident that the other viewers were supportive of our efforts.  My success here gave me confidence and launched a series of boozie attempts.

Many lessons were culled at that inaugural boozie.  First being, only sneak the sauce into movies that AREN’T sold out.  We got lucky with Sex in the City.  Unlike that crowd, most movie goers don’t find that drunk girls and the smell of alcohol add to the experience.  So give yourself some space…preferably in the back of the theatre.  You don’t need to be as “back corner” as say a high school BJ, just avoid the family of 5 camping out front and center.  Use that noggin.

Secondly, Open all bottles before hand.  Nothing gives you away more than the careful pop of a cork.  AND, when you’re being covert, nerves sometimes get the best of you and you’ll rip that thing in half.  Screw tops are a very good alternative.

Thirdly, bring external cups.  Go to the store and purchase some to go coffee cups.  Once in the theatre pull them out of your bag and fill ‘er up.  Put that sippy cup top on and have at it.  It’s more drink friendly than a straw, muffles the smell, avoids having to deal with buying a suspicious “cup of ice” (or worse, buying a coke and having to pour it out never really getting the coke taste out of the cup), and lastly the way you drink coffee is more consistent with the way you drink booze.   When you’re done, toss it in the waste bin as you leave.

Lastly, if it wasn’t already very obvious, store this ALL in a big hand bag.  It’s vogue.  Women hide dogs in their bag.  You can handle a bottle of wine and some empty coffee cups. NEVER pre-fill your cups.  Some places don’t let in outside food and they’ll stop you at the ticket stand.  Oddly, though they never suspect coffee once inside because most movie theatre’s sell coffee just people so rarely order it, employees don’t know the difference.  And honestly, once you’re in the darkness of the theatre nobody can really tell anyways.

Which reminds me.  Don’t crack open the bottle til the feature presentation has begun.  There is still ambient moving about and work lights on during trailers. By feature time, everyone is settled and the place is pitch black.  It’s your task to screw up.

***Disclaimer: If you’re already drunk, take caution.

Example: most recently Spam and I went to see a movie with a big bottle of red after a dinner where we also enjoyed a big bottle of red.  Half way through the first act we were slow dancing in the row and twisting in the isles (this movie had really good music)…laughing like idiots.   I passed out by Act 3, spread eagle in two arm chairs, and poor Spam had to escort me out and drive both of our drunk asses home.  If the theatre hadn’t been near empty, we surely would have been asked to leave…possibly arrested cause when woken I was feeling very confrontational.

So there you have it.  My new hobby and your new mission.  I’m getting more bold with this so hopefully by my next entry I’ll be telling you how to smuggle in an antipasto platter, and by the end of the year… how to roast a rack of lamb during the opening credits. Cheers!


Jan 13 2010

Babies on a Plane

Hey Kids!

Airports. Funny things. Everywhere you turn in an airport, even the shitty prop plane ones, there’s a bar. I am endlessly fascinated by the relationship between fliers and booze. On a base level, almost everyone becomes an alcoholic when confronted with mortality. Flying can be scary shit and thanks to Mr. Detroit underwear guy, the one possible perk (getting sat next to a mile high partner) seems bleaker than ever. The days of sexy stewardesses and debonair pilots are long gone. Elegant meals have been replaced with a bag of cheese crackers, smoking in the cabin is non grata, and lets face it the seats are getting smaller (or the general population is getting larger which I wouldn’t rule out). The only sane place to seek solace is a frothy brewski.

Funny thing just happened….

As I write this entry I make no joke about it when I say that children are literally flanking me: 360 babies. And then bam! I’m confronted with the nervy parent. The nervy, shitty, my-world-revolves-around-my-kids-and-yours-should-too parent! Oh we all know them. They’re separated from their kid by one aisle seat, not middle seat nooooo, separated by a premium seat. And they give you the, please move so we can be united, guilt trip.

Now, some background on my flying habits and me. I make it a point to fly VIP for as little as possible. Which is why I stay loyal to one airline and their rewards program. First through security, prestige airport lounges, first on the plane, premium seating, free checked bags (never thought that would be a perk) frequent upgrades. So after all this VIP work, if I’m snubbed my righteous aisle seat, I get really pissy.

This woman sitting to my right has the audacity to ask me to move to a middle seat (and a middle seat that doesn’t recline at that) so that I will accommodate her and her spawn. When I initially refuse she makes threats with her lap child (who is well past lap child stage) and goes to get a stewardess. The stewardess all but physically moves me to the torture seat and the nervy shit mom tops it off by shooting ME the stink eye. Now stationed in a middle seat exit row with a chair that doesn’t recline. I vow revenge and begin plotting. As a take off on my original entry, this is what I came up with.

As soon as the drink cart was in full swing I enacted “Operation Brewski”. Operation Brewski went as follows: Buy everyone seated around her and her children as many drinks as they wanted, open bar on the Burrito. Get everyone around the children so snockered that #A We wouldn’t care about her kids and their misanthropic adventures in seat kicking #B We’d reek and be obnoxiously giggly and #C Mother Yahoo would have to live the sense memory of childhood sleepovers with Uncle Micky. Evil, much? Thank you.

It totally worked. When the boozer sitting at the window next to her “Bubby Andy” (at least that’s what she called her devil spawn), went for round 3 she suggested maybe he’d had enough. I blurted out a laugh from behind her and she shot me the stink eye again. At this point I’d finally had enough mini bottles of cabernet to get some courage and said…. “You’re not happy to be sitting next to a guy who likes beer, I’m not happy to be in a middle seat that doesn’t recline, looks like we’re both uncomfortable this flight.”

I bought window guy another beer and eventually passed out in the middle of “Julie and Julia.” Suddenly it felt pretty good from where I was sitting.


Jul 2 2009

Oh – J

Hey Kids.

I woke up at the butt crack of dawn today to be molested with 5 different emails demanding my three favorite things: time, money, and labour.   I nearly had a breakdown before 8am.  After getting some aggression out by punching a pillow, my mother (who flew in to help me close on my condo) looks at me like a scared puppy and suggests…

“You should go for a run.”

“I can’t run! I’M HUNGRY!!!!”

We burritos tend to stress eat.  While I take care of some business and try not to punch anything else my mother starts cooking (God bless her).  She peeks in the office 30 minutes later as I frantically type.

“I made some breakfast.”

Thats more like it.  I shlep into the kitchen.  A beautiful healthy spread: eggs, fruit, grilled ham…and wine glasses.  Indicating the glasses I chime in…

“Ceviche, I appreciate the gesture.   But even for us, 7 am is a little extreme.”

“No, silly.  The glasses are for orange juice.”

“Oh”   Ceviche takes in my semi-relieved response and I can see her brain working overtime….

“Do you want some champagne with your oj?”

I love her.


Apr 21 2009

The Good Word

Hey Kids! 

So one of my best childhood friends got hitched this weekend in Hunt, Texas.  Lots of funny stories were culled in this particular nuptial inferno, but I will share with you one in particular at the moment….

It rained like a mofo this weekend in East Texas.  And a projected sunny, seamless, four hour road-trip-bond-fest with three of my favorite grade school friends turned into an almost 6 hour drive through torrential storms and flooded overpasses.  Shoot, I didn’t even get to put a little wear on my  various weekend ipod mixes for fear of distracting the driver and ending up in a gutter somewhere (not that we could have heard any music over the hail pounding someone’s mother’s luxury suv that we were rolling in).  Marry that natural disaster with the fact that we lost cell phone service at our bar-less hotel, and you can imagine how bowser I was for a beer when we finally landed at the rehearsal dinner.  Needless to say I got pretty loose pretty fast…. I’m sure you’re shocked.

A little over half way through the dinner, before dessert and after speeches, I ran into the minister on my way to the bar for a refill.  One of my favorite commiserators, lets call her “Peanuts” was accompanying me and we know each other well enough to know when it’s crunch time.  As the minister introduced himself we ESPed each other to turn on the “sober talk.”  Unfortunately Peanut’s sober talk is much like mine: over alert and complementary (honestly If I like your shoddy old shirt at the beginning of the night I’ll be demanding you design a line of vintage tees for Alexander McQueen by the end.  It’s just my MO). We responded to his inquiries about what we do and how we know the bride by gushing about each other to the point of awkwardness.  

“Peanuts is doing the most amazing things with the non profit she works for, we’re talking Mother T with Angelina looks.  Aren’t you just in awe?!   I now I am.  I mean that heart, that mind, those looks to boot.  I feel so lucky to have her in my life!”

“No, Minister.  Burrito is the amazing one.  Did she tell you she has a production company?!?! AND is one of the best actresses I know!”

“Oh, you.”

“Seriously, don’t be modest.  You are!  She is.”

It went on like this for a while.  I thought the minister was glazing over, so I started to tone it down for fear he’d discovered our sober sis secret. Then I realized. He wasn’t looking astray out of boredom, he had a glass eye.  My current state had cause me to make this discovery late in the game, but with the new finding I felt even more compelled to impress him with selfless christian praise of my friend.

“BTW did I tell you that Peanuts moved to Nicaragua to work with impoverish children….and she just got bangs.  BTW  I love your hair these days. Don’t you love her hair.”

Halfway through my hair rant, the minister dismissed himself.  We looked at each other smugly.  That obviously went well.  Totally fooled him.  

About 30 minutes later Peanuts and I were sitting ’round the outside fire pit enjoying our so far successful night.  We had just emerging from some hidden bushes to secretly smoke a taboo cigarette and were feeling like the sexy bad girls we wished we actually were back in high school. About that time a gaggle of bridesmaids came skipping out side muffling what looked to be serious laughter.  OOoooooo.  This meant they were harbouring good gossip so I perked up.  

“What’s the good word ladies?”

They paused in front of us red-faced, eyes darting back and forth, daring each other to spill.  When I realized none of them wanted the job it finally occurred to me that this good gossip was about US, otherwise they’d be lobbying to be the herald rather than squirming to be the messenger.  

“What? WHAT?!?!”

Our least sarcastic friend stepped forward.  This was not a joke, but apparently it was hilarious. 

“So, the minister just came up to the maid of honor and asked if you two were together.”


“He seemed very serious, yes.”

Mother!  The one eyed minister thinks I’m a lesbian!  It was official.  I’d driven 5 hours to the middle of nowhere Texas Hill Country and was already given the scarlet letter.  I wasn’t getting any nookie from the male species.  I had been cock blocked by a small town, one eyed, man of God with three little words. There was a mental jump/cut to me at the liquor store mere  hours earlier staring at a flask of Everclear and passingI.  If only I had known then what I know now.  It was gonna take way more than Shiner Bock to see the rest of this celibate weekend through.  


Apr 9 2009


Hey Kids.

So, I just flew home for an old timer spring break.  Staying with my parents in the grade school, periwinkle colored, dance themed room (ballet dip shits, I was no Jean-Benet) I grew up in…and it still does the trick. I start prancing around while I unpack my bag like friggin Baby Jane.  Then I hear a booming and familiar voice from afar.
“Burrito!” my dad calls from downstairs, “You want a glass of wine?” 
“Abso-friggin-lutely,” I sing.
I love my 20s.  I can still act like an idiot, but unlike my teenage years I can do it without acne or fear of federal punishment.  
Now, Dad has always had excellent taste in wine.  He taught me the difference between Cabernet and Merlot when I was 13 and I’ve been intrigued ever since. One of the many reasons I get excited when I come home, besides endless laundry service and a full fridge, is the high quality wine on hand. 
I bounded down stairs with the lithe prance of a Fantasia Hippopotamus.  When I reached the kitchen parched and poised, Pops hands me a glass of Chardonnay.  We cheers.  I sip.  I run to the sink.  I spit it out.  
“What the hell is this crap?  Are you trying to kill me!?” I blurt out through my acid soaked esophagus. 
“It’s Iron Horse,” Dad muses.
“Did you open it last week?”
“No, you used to love this.”
“Yeah, I also used to love minute made orange.”
Dad looked at me with confusion, mumbled something about having a Sauvignon Blanc chilled in the basement refrigerator and threw his hands up as he left to smoke a cigar outside. 
Had it happened?  Had dear father finally lost his touch?  Had the man that lectured me on wine stems, cork moisture, and bottle openers when I was in middle school given up?  NO!  It hit me.  The time had come.  I had surpassed my father in wine snobbery.  My taste was higher, my palette more refined, and my penchant of a greater tannin.   I was officially a wine brat.  It was a sad sad realization and frankly I blame Pork Sausage for suggesting we go to that tasting class Junior year of college.  
I held my nose, downed the rest of the vinegar he’d just served me, and went to the liquor cabinet.  Hmmmmmmmm.  I eyed a nice bottle of 10 year old Macallan Scotch.  Daddy still had some tricks up his sleeve.  I poured myself a glass and mentally noted my new terrain: SCOTCH WHISKY.  
Paired with my pension for golf and increasing kitchen and housekeeping skills, I’m a breast augmentation short of becoming every man’s wet dream.  Cheers!

Apr 8 2009

Tequila Intervention

Hey Kids.

Familiar crime scene this morning.  Woke with a pounder and parched pallet.  Looking for water, I reached out to my night stand and instead of a bottle of arrowhead hit my trusty clock radio. I opened my eyes to find a mound of honey comb chocolate perched on its side (this is the yummiest shit I’ve ever been duped into buying from whole foods).  It had some killer bite marks carved into it’s corner, but no real damage.  SCORE, minus the singular bite mark, it was fully intact. Conclusion: I passed out before snacking!   
The headache pain subsided as I jumped out of bed to inspect my no dinner-all-alcohol-evening-flat tummy. Result: Eh. (The non-anorexic midsection should have been a tip off).
I scuttled to the kitchen with coffee in my tractor and pride in my heart.  I may not look anorexic, but If I skip breakfast too, I’ll be well on my way!  Then I saw it: an empty bowl of what looked to be ice cream.  AH!  I inspected further…traces of whip cream and chocolate syrup.  OH YOU!  Not only did I snack…I snacked sundae.   I threw the bowl in the sink and started to run hot water over its ice creamy tracks in a sad attempt to hide the evidence.  If I can’t see it, it didn’t happen.   
Sniff sniff…sniff…sniff-sniff.  Smells like… I snap my head, full 180, and zone in.  Cheesy residued grill pan.  FLASH removing Ezekiel bread from refrigerator.  FLASH removing shreded cheese from refrigerator.  FLASH sizzle of bread and cheese hitting pan and marrying in a crispy melty blur.  FLASH me devouring grilled cheese on the couch.  NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
Drank tequila last night…  
Let me explain to you my relationship with tequila.  There is a trite but popular country song called “Tequila makes her cloths fall off” and that is basically my mantra in a nutshell.  I don’t get naked per say, but I definitely let things “hang out.”  If you wanna get the burrito loose fast, give her a Cadillac on the rocks with salt.
“Burrito,” I mentally sit myself down because the grilled cheese pan was too much to ignore, “how many times do we have to have this talk?  NO Tequila. It either ends in bad behavior with boys or bad behavior with the fridge, either way it is bad.”  I hate yelling at myself.  I just have the most pathetic face.  ”There now, there, I didn’t mean to upset you, its for your own good.  Hey!  You’re beautiful!  Stop that.  Just don’t let it happen again.  Cheer up!  Come on, I’ll buy you a coffee at Cow’s End….and a muffin.”  I felt better immediately.  Good talk.