Jun 12 2014

“I’m Laid Back”

New term I’ll be incorporating into my vocabulary after a weekend with extended Texas relatives: “I’M LAID BACK”

It’s most commonly used as a non aggressive synonym for “I don’t give a shit.”

My cousin Brandon hits on a girl at a bar. She tells him she has a boyfriend. He tells her “I’m laid back.”

Nov 3 2011

ToDo List

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


Aug 9 2011

Things I’ve Done This Past Week That I’m Not Proud Of

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.


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.”



Sep 4 2010

C cup

Hey Kids.

This is NOT a test.

I have always prided myself on my modest chest size, and when I say “modest chest” I mean my flat as a board A cups perched on my front side.

Pros:  No sagging, can wear flapper outfits properly, running is comfortable.

Cons: It’s hard to get a bartender’s attention, men look at me in the face when I speak, finding sexy underwear is a demoralizing task.

The ladder of the cons is why I rarely go shopping for lingerie.  Despite my small boob sureness, finding a proper bra is an embarrassing chore.  But after a recent harsh machine wash of my unmentionables (seriously, who really has the patience to hand wash them every time?) and a quickly approaching 3rd date…figured it was time to bite the bullet.

Shopping for these things never happens organically.  On this particular day I was at Nordstroms checking out the latest fall imports when I forced myself to detour to the Cosabella display. I could see the commission hopefuls circling me, but I was determined to grab a few promising lacy things and jet before any of them got into my kill zone.  I was home free until…

“When was the last time you were measured?”

I jumped a couple feet and turned towards the smarmy sound to find the shortest little gray haired woman I’d ever seen in my life. SNEAKY OLD LADY!

“Erm.  2 years ago,” I fibbed.  That sounded like a good amount of time.  Long enough ago to not be held accountable, but close enough to look responsible.
“Oh well your bra size can change every 6 months.  You should check it more frequently”  I check for breast cancer less frequently thank you.
“I’m good. Been a 34A my whole life. No need to further humiliate myself by having you confirm it once more.”
“If you wouldn’t mind, I’d really like to fit you. I’m trying to get my bra sizing certificate.”

What the frack? You can get certified for that shit? I have a dozen frat guys who’d be certified PHDs in the subject if this were true. She looked sweet and pathetic, though…like this job was her only respite from being confined to the couch and daytime television.  I realized I hadn’t tipped my barista the last 3 times I got a latte and was due a good deed, so I said…

She looked like a little girl on Christmas morning. “Oh Super!”

She then got very still, squinted her eyes, and calmly stared at my chest for a good 30 seconds. It was weird. Jolting out of her trance she announced the diagnosis….

“32C!” Poor thing, she was retarded.
“Oh, ha! You’re, seriously. Thank you, but absolutely not.”
“You may not believe me,” she was right, I didn’t “but I really think you are. In fact, I’m almost positive of it. Let me take you back for a fitting…”

She lead me to the dressing rooms, picking up some hideous looking nude things on the way back.

When we got to the dressing room I de-robed…a little concerned to be in close quarters with this handicapped woman, but my good deed wouldn’t count if I bolted. She handed me the ugliest bra I’d ever seen to try on. Great, she was retarded AND had bad taste.

“Yeeeeaaah….this isn’t really my style.”
“Oh, no honey. This is a sizing bra. It’s a 32 C. Just try it. I think you’ll be surprised. I’m Fee by the way!”
“Oooooooookay Fee!”

I was getting kinda pissed at her and her “trust me” persona. I angrily put on the hideous flesh toned number, determined to get this over with. As soon as the clasp clicked around my chest Fee began adjusting the bra straps…like that was gonna help. I was getting more and more mortified and then suddenly she announced…

“THERE! See, I told you. Perfect 32C.”
I looked up in the mirror prepared to be horrified and…holy handbag. There were my former mosquito bites resting plumply in the ugly bra.

“Fuck me!…sorry for the language, but. Is this a special bra are something? I can barely fill a B, let alone a C.”
“I assure you.  It’s a C. I think you’ve been compensating for your cup size with your chest size. You’re a 32 not a 34. Your breast have a wider surface spread which may make them appear less concentrated, but they’re actually quite full.”

She was Rain Man, but instead of cards it was boobs!

“Can I get my manager to double check the fit?” She asked
“By all means!” Could use a second opinion.

The manager came in and confirmed the fit. CRAZY. Either these Nordstrom peeps were conspiring against me, or I was actually a C. I still needed further proof.

“Lets try on some regular bras now. Something a little racier than this, perhaps?”
“Of course dear!”

Fee brought in bra after bra: satin, demi, sheer, opaque, they all fit. I was in shock. I picked out two Calvins and some matching undies then headed to the cash register.

“I think you picked out some lovely lingerie,” Fee said.
“I’m still astounded that I can wear lingerie…maybe I’m fatter?”
“Weight gain CAN have an effect on cup size. So can stress or a new medication.”
“Whelp, I’m not on the pill….”

Then suddenly, things started coming together. I have bad stomach problems and recently started taking a compound medicine for it. I remember reading that one of it’s side effects was increasing milk production and the FDA had banned it in the US because of it. Dude…my boobs were acting like I’d just had a baby! I’d actually found a pill to make my boobs bigger. Granted I may start leaking at any moment, but small price to pay. I’d finally entered womanhood with the help of science. No wonder the FDA had banned this medication, if word got out it could cause a revolution.

I gave Fee a knowing smile, threw in a few more thongs, and swiped my credit card.  I had to get home and order more of those wonder pills from Canada.

“Come visit again!” Fee chirped at me.

With these new puppies.  I felt confident I would.


Aug 25 2010

Where’s your pahtner?

Hey Kids.

Recently got back from Coconut’s nuptials in Antigua. It was beautiful, make no mistake, BUT there was ONE glaring hiccup for The Burrito: it was a honeymoon resort and I was riding solo.

Post touch-down at the VC Bird International Airport,  I squeeked through customs with Pork Sausage.  Since she was also traveling alone for the time being (Rice-r-Roni was catching a later flight) we clung to each other like Chelsea Handler and a bag of Dorritos.

It was a cacophany of Island crazies outside baggage but PS and I managed to make it to the hotel shuttle kiosk intact.  Apparently the hotel wasn’t used to singles. Or so we were about to find out.

At the kiosk, I was met by a deranged looking woman with a disorganized clip board chatting up someone on her cell phone. She laughed that laugh that losers laugh to advertise they have friends, then gave me the “one moment” finger.   I waited a beat, then after exchanging “fuck her” looks with PS, decided to gently butt in.

“Is this the Sandals check in?”

She looked at me like I’d just interrupted a threesome with her, Brad, and Angie, then slammed the cell phone shut mid-sentence (Bi-polar much?). With a cold island accent she hissed…

“Burrito,” I said.

She flipped through the sloppy clip board with so much aggression I wondered if I’d said “Bitch, fuck your mother” instead of my name by mistake. I hadn’t, she just hated her life.

“You’re not on da list.” She stared at me for a moment and strummed her acrylics. I realized she expected me to solve this problem for her.

“I have the confirmation number here.”
“I can do no-tin weet dat. Ah need ah name.”
“Miss Talking Burrito”
“I oolready looked fer dat one. Whaz yer pahtner’s name?”
“My pahtner?”
“Yer Hoosband! Yer boyfrin! Yer pahtner!”
“Oh! Oh oh oh oh no. No no. No partner. Just me. Single. Solo. Solomente.”
“Yeh don have a pahtner!?!”
“Not at the moment, no. Again it’s Burrito, Talking.”
“Yeh sure it con be unduh any oodah name?”

Then it popped into my head.

“….Errrrm…..Spam? Maybe Spam? BUT I took his name off the reservation 3 months ago AND I booked it under MY name with MY credit card so I can’t imagine that–”
“Ahhhhhhhh der we go,” She got so saccharine that I skipped right over theorizing about a bi-polar disorder and went straight to diagnosing her as a sociopath. “Mr. and Mrs. Spam! I found it.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I dead panned.
“Yooll be taken dat van ober der to dah Mediterranean side. Welcome to da Island!”
“Can you fix the name? And isn’t it weird to have a Mediterranean side on a Caribbean Island?”
“Geet goin now!”

I died a little, gave her a look like she’d just farted, and did an about face. Pork Sausage immediately made eye contact with me from across the clusterfuck and mouthed “ouch.” You said it sister.

While PS checked in under her partner’s name (naturally), I produced a designer dew rag from my carry on and tied it to my head with a defiant Arrrrrrgh.  The theme score to Pirates of the Caribbean played in my I head. I needed rum, a sword, and someone to stab… Jack Sparrow too if he was available.

Puffing out my AA chest, I wheeled two heaving TUMI bags towards the van that sociopath had gestured at. A big sweaty man in a Tommy Bahama shirt was leaning against the sliding side door. As I approached I could see him looking at my bags with dread.

“Hi! Is this the van to Mediterranean?”
“Could you help me with my bags?”
“Where’s yer pahtner?” AGAIN with the partner shit!
“I don’t have a partner.”
“You done have ah pahtner?!”
“Everyboody got ah pahtner.”
“Apparently not.”
“WHY? Why done you have ah pahtner?”

He asked me this question with genuine curiosity and intrigue, like I was a world mystery to be solved. Seriously!? Did he only read about single women in the Bible?! I’m not a reformed prostitute on a Jesus binder, just your average 20 something with a bag full of vibrators! But of course I didn’t say that. Instead I said…

“Ummmmm just keeping my options open in case I meet a nice man like yourself.” He seemed confused at my insult, so I pushed the more important topic. “Care to help me with these puppies? Better get ‘em in the back before space fills up!”

He looked at the luggage really angry-like. I had a feeling the handle with care tag would go unnoticed.  And, since I didn’t want my bag of vibrators (that part wasn’t a joke) to get bruised, I grabbed Tommy Bahama by the collar, pulled him close, and whispered…
“Alright you got me.  I lied.  I’m not here alone.  Boyfriends in the bag. Fucker couldn’t afford the fare and wanted me to ‘help him get to Antigua.’  Don’t rat us out. We’ve made it this far.”

He couldn’t tell if I was joking, but I thought I’d take advantage of his “thinking” moment and jumped in the van.  He finally snapped out of it and cautiously went to pick up my duffel. I waved at him and cooed…

“Be extra careful with that one!”  Wink wink.


Jun 9 2010

Losing It: Becoming a Vegetarian

Hey Kids!

I recently got my heart broken. And, although the sad reality of facing spinsterhood amidst a boom of friend’s nuptials was exceedingly depressing, it was the best diet I ever went on. I’m currently a mere 5 pounds away from reaching the weight listed on my resume. And believe me, I never thought I’d make that lie a truth. Even in this town.

For a while I felt nauseous every time I looked at food or wine (I know, BAD). Surprisingly, or not, the only thing that appealed to me was vodka. So don’t worry, I was sufficely satiated.

I decided not to question this lack of appetite and instead hoped that I’d finally stumbled into that elusive state only anorexics and coke fueled runway models were capable of accessing. This excited me and I immediately set my new wealth of attention on discovering a way to capitalize on it.

Years of therapy haven’t been lost on yours truly. I’ve gotten fairly good at self-analyzation. So, I quickly realized this new disdain for food was “severe emotional distress” rather than me finding my long lost inner model. From past experience, I knew I’d have to locate an alternate issue to replace the “distress” with as soon as the sting of loss and disappointment dissipated.

So, I carefully considered my options (i.e. took a shot of vodka) and concluded that the issue I should replace “severe emotional distress” with would be “control.” I’m a very controlling person. Sexy quality, right? BUT when harnessed in the right way, (i.e. obsessing over exercise and eating habits) it can achieve great things.

I immersed myself in spinning, yoga, and boxing classes, hoping to get a head start before that dern appetite returned, I hate her. As any lady who’s ever gone toe to toe with vanity pounds knows, it’s good to have a plan of attack. Since I’d recently given up red meat I decided my angle would be VEGETARIAN.

Almost every skinny bitch I know, or hope to hate on a first name basis, claims to be a vegetarian. I figured this angle would be golden. AND maybe I’d meet a hot health nut. After all, Christian Bale (my all time celebrity crush) is a vegetarian. And although I swore to lay down my sword on that particular conquest when him and his wife had a child (I hate to break up families), this could help dramatically when I finally do get the chance to make him my soul mate. It’s important to have practical dreams you see.

Doing anything selfless and spiritually enlightening doesn’t mean a THING until you tell everyone about it. So after making this life, and waist line, altering decision, I immediately called Ceviche to announce the news.

I always assumed that, since I come from a family that considers shooting squirrels off power lines a legitimate way to unwind after work, cutting out any meat of any kind would be damn near impossible. Not just in a genetic way, but also in a fear of backlash way.

Unfortunately I was deliriously caught up in visions of me arriving at a red carpet event looking as svelte as Carrie Underwood when I rang home, so I momentarily forgot why I’d never considered vegetarianism before. After a dramatic processing pause, my mother began screaming into the phone.

“What!?” Ceviche roared.
“I’m going vegetarian,” I repeated.
“Ermmm. Health reasons?”

I couldn’t sound so naive as to say my real reason, which was to ride the current wave of anorexia I’d been blessed with, so I tried to sound all righteous and Peta-y instead.

“Do you know how they farm meat?” I posed this question with the zeal of an asshole actor doing a political PSA. “They pump those animals with antibiotics and hormones and force feed them other dead animals covered in poo!” I think I’d heard that somewhere. “That’s why 8 year olds are menstruating!”

“You’ve been in that liberal California too long. Those people are getting to you,” she sighed with genuine despair. I actually felt like a disappointment.

“No, I’m just finally opening my eyes to clean living.”

At that statement I stamped out the Marlboro Light I was puffing and made a mental note to pick up some All Natural American Spirits next time I stopped at an ARCO to fill up my SUV.

“Well, I guess that’s fine, Burrito. But YOU’RE gonna have to tell your father. As long as you still eat his smoked duck and the occasional venison sausage I’m sure he’ll be okay with it.”
“Mom, do you know what a vegetarian is?” I point blank asked her.
“That’s not the extreme one right? Where you don’t eat cheese?”
“God no.”
“Well then I don’t see why you can’t have a little duck every now and then when you’re home.”

She was starting to make sense so I quickly made up an excuse to go. Also, I was getting hungry.

I opened up the fridge and stared inside. It was full of deli meat. Hmmm. So I opened up the freezer to inspect the frozen meals. Tofu Enchiladas, Brown Rice and Vegetable Bowls, Garden Burger, BINGO Slow Churned Ice Cream. I whipped out the carton and composed the most beautiful sundae I’d ever seen, truly a personal masterpiece. Sundae for dinner. TOTALLY vegetarian. This was gonna be easier than I thought.
I plopped down on the couch to watch some Glee and dig into dinner. I scooped a big spoonful of Home-style Vanilla with melted peanut butter and strawberries into my mouth and let it melt there to the sweet sound of Neal Patrick Harris singing Dream On. As I relished in sundae goodness, I couldn’t help but visualize my Carrie Underwood arms. This was totally happening. I would be a twig in NO time. Good plan.


Mar 17 2010

St. Patty’s Day Surprise

Hey Kids.

Well.  I came home this afternoon to three humongo boxes sitting heavy on my front stoop.    After a moment of “what could this be” I glanced at the return address:  Lake Whales, FL.  Oh no.  I had a vauge flashback to two weeks ago.  I was sitting in the Nashville airport, massively hungover from a bachelorette night out, when my mother rang to inform me she’d secured some gem antiques at an estate sale while on a trip to visit my grandmother in Florida.  Something about a few tea cups and a little oil painting.  This did NOT look like a few tea cups.

After breaking quite a sweat single handedly lugging all three massive parcels into my foyer, I began to rip open the biggest one with some keys.  It was really taped up.   I finally got the sucker open and found ANOTHER box nestled inside it.  Seriously.  So I tore into that box as well, dove into a sea of packing peanuts, and eventually surfaced with dozens of bubble wrapped dinner ware.   Couple of tea cups my ass, this is a full set of China!!!!

After 45 minutes of unwrapping I’m staring at 10 sets of 7 piece antique Wedgwood china.  It takes up my entire dining room table (which only seats 6 btw).  I call my mother.

“Hey, Burrito!”  She answers with a perk.

“A few tea cups?” I bark.


“You said you were sending me a few tea cups.”

“Oh they came!  Yay!  What do you think?”

“I think you’re confusing me with a 70 year old English woman.”

“You don’t think the tea cups are pretty?”

“The tea cups are very pretty.  So are the demitasses, the salad plates, the dinner plates, the dessert plates…”

“Oh dear, I thought it was just the tea cups.”

“You didn’t realize you were getting a full set of china?”

“We’ll YOU are getting a full set of china, actually.  Won’t it be nice for luncheons?”

“Yes mother, because I throw so many luncheons.”  I don’t have anyone to invite to a luncheon, let alone the know how to throw one.

“Is the painting there?  Have you opened it yet?” My mom quickly inserts this new subject to keep me from thinking to much on the luncheon tip.

“I’m afraid to.”

“Well I have to get ready for a St. Patrick’s day party.  Your father and I are going to have a beer.  Call me when you open it.”

I gingerly walk over to the remaining package, take a deep breath, and begin to open it.  Dear God.

I pull away the last piece of bubble wrap to expose an antique oil painting in a distressed gold wood frame.  The painting is a portrait of a fat child in a red dress with an elaborate turban on it’s head.  The turban is crowned with an ostrich feather and the child is delicately picking flowers from a nearby basket and…eating them.

I go to the fridge to get a beer.  It’s St. Patty’s day, but I haven’t felt like a drink until this moment.   Returning to the painting I look at it for a few moments pondering. Then suddenly I recall Ceviche saying she “saw it and thought of me”.  My mind fills with self conscious questions.  Did I look like that as a child?   Is this a comment on my eating habits?  Turban?  I ring Ceviche again.  She answers with exciting anticipation.

“So, what do you think?”

“It’s a baby.” I say


“It’s a fat baby in a red dress.”


“Small child really.  Well, big boned child.  It’s eating a flower I think.”

“I thought it was of an elegant woman.”  She’s serious, I can hear it in her voice.

“An elegant fat baby woman.”

“Well I couldn’t really see it that well when I was bidding.  It was over my head.  This other man kept coming up behind me and bidding more.  We got into a pissing fight.”

“You mean a pissing contest?”

“Yes, a pissing contest. That’s what I mean. He was very sneaky.  But I won!”

“You sure did.

“I have to go.  Your father looks so cute, he’s wearing his Irish Yoga t-shirt under a blue blazer.”

“Have fun.”

I hung up the phone and continued to stare at the painting.  And then I went and got another beer.  I drank the beer, hoping it would all make sense with a little buzz.  On the contrary.  It looked odder.

I think I’ll just put it on my wall and make some tea.  I certainly have the accoutrement now.

Happy St. Patricks to me.


Mar 3 2010

The LA Party Scene, Part 3: Frat-tastics

Hey Kids!

Now understand that I’m hardest on the ones I love.  I once was an active participant and believer in the frat scene, spending four hard years in the Greek system.  But, now I see those days as something of the past.  Something for the college kid…and perhaps the recent post grad.  But 30, 35, 42, LOCK IT UP!

You know who you are.  You play beer pong on a regular basis, say things like “black out” when referring to a good time, and consider mesh basketball shorts acceptable social garb (they’re not BTW).  The only difference really from your life in a frat/sorority and now is…well very little.  Frat-tastics don’t change, they ex-change. School for a day job, a frat house for a real house, dues for a mortgage, and kegs/wine coolers for long necks/yellow tail.  You’ll be able to spot these types by their love of hats.  Guys love the baseball cap (all varieties) and girls love the cowboy hat (beat up variety).

A frat-tastic party will almost always revolve around a sporting event.  Either at a bar with lots of beer on tap or at whoever’s home has the biggest flat screen and meanest grill set up.  Frat-tastic guys are the only guys who can get away with slapping your ass in front of your boyfriend and frat-tastic girls are the only girls who can claim to be your best friend a mere two glasses of chardonay after you’ve met.

In my most recent frat-tastic encounter I ended up at a sport bar with loads of fresh out of law school types in full gym gear (apparently showering and changing after playing basketball was too much of a chore). They were eating a meaty fried something and sucking back suds with an “I am sex” attitude.  Don’t know how they had the confidence, they just did.  Next to the bros were a table of corresponding hos huddled together like a judgey sorority clique in full makeup and going out regalia. They finger waved at me with french acrylics.  After a very fake “how are you! OMG what have you been doing?  Its so good to see you” moment, most of them managed to brush off my questions about their career (claiming they were merely teaching something or working in real estate) and quickly turned the focus back on me.  Very cheeky and smart.   I forgot how good these types are at deflecting.

“How is acting, going?” They asked

“Awesome.  I just booked a film playing Matt Damon’s love interest.”


“No, not really.  But I am in a funny play that goes up next month”


“No, not really. I’m lying about that too?”


“Boob fart.”


This conversation wasn’t going to have much depth.  I could tell.

“Really.” I said “Did you hear so and so got engaged?”

“Oh we know!!!!!  Isn’t she lucky!  It’s going to be a lilac and cream color theme, in Laguna, so pretty, we’re all bridesmaids!  Did you see the rock? So jealous.”

I tried to suck back the chunks.

“So jealous.” I said.

“Do you have a boyfriend, Burrito?”

“In fact I do?”

“Is he the one?”

“He’s one of a kind, that’s for sure.”

“But do you think you guys will get married.”

“Not all of us can be as lucky as so and so, right?  I gotta go.  Spinning class in the morning. Byeeeeeeeeeeee.”

I left as swiftly as I could without looking like I was fleeing.  Just when I thought I was in the clear an old frat buddy of mine ran up behind and goosed me. I was a little perturbed, a little violated, and a little complemented.

“Eh! Watch it.” I said.   He winked at me.  And, yes, I winked back.  Old habits die hard.


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.