Apr 28 2009

Just as good as Star Trek

Hey Kids. 

I keep getting spam comments for plastic surgery and Viagra.  I think it’s because I mentioned these things in my last few posts.  So I’m gonna try something for shits and giggles.  

Penis. Ass. Fuck. Lactate. Cum. Scrotum. Dirty Sanchez. Donkey. Nancy Pelosi.  

Will let you know what comes of this.  

Now that THAT’s out of the way.  I have a funny.  Working out in the gym today with my friend/sometimes trainer….I’ve been very committed to my workouts lately due to a little incident: after weeks, I was finally feeling skinny and decided it was safe to get on the scale.  Even in my “feeling skinny” state I was packing 5 extra lbs.  I’ve never been actually delusional about weight gain, and it freaked me out. Freaked me out enough to attempt a diet and up my exercise… So I’m at the gym with my friend/trainer and he casually mentions that he’s going to the Star Trek premiere this Thursday (real shocker considering that he trained it’s star actors. Impressive?  Yes.  But  I constantly feel like a loser in comparison.  I think he babysits me doing squats so he can feel prettier than his clients for a change).  I’m all “thats cool” but actually feeling shit about myself as it reminds me yet again how NOT Star Trek Premiere I am.   I ask him about what he’s going to wear, he coos (as much as a meat head can).  I ask him about the after party, he gushes (as much as a meat head can), I ask him about his coming to MY short film’s tiny premiere this weekend, he shuts up.

“What?  It’s no Star Trek, but its something.  Just pretend my mother is Mary Hart and my best friend’s creepy cousin is the paps and same diff!” I joke.  
“HEY,” he snaps at me “Don’t do that!  You’re movie is just as good as Star Trek.  Own it!  You should be proud!”
“You’re right, you’re right.  I wear my tiny short film in a local film festival badge proudly. Graumans can go fuck itself!  So you coming to the Saturday or Sunday screening?”
“Ah babe, I’m busy!  So sorry.”
“You’re not working all weekend? Oh wait your show!  You have a matinee Sunday, right?  It’s cool.  I totally understand.” 

My trainer/friend is an actor btw. Shocker.

“Um, no I’m getting a massage.”
“Wait one flipping minute!  What was that whole ‘just as good as Star Trek’ pep talk?  I mean we both knew it was shit and you were just trying to be a good friend, but seriously?!?!?!   A massage!”

You have to admire his honesty.  Most people would just get the massage and apologize later with a lame excuse.   For all of his bull shit.  He’s a total straight talker.  I shut the hell up and continued squatting.  My movie may not get a lot of attention, but my ass sure better.  


Apr 27 2009

A Real Stinger*

Hey Kids.

So, okay. Couldn’t make this up if I tried.

I just flew into Florida for the weekend to spend Easter with my grandmother. She has a beautiful Mediterranean style house in central Florida. I haven’t been here in 5 years so it was quite a treat when I rolled up the driveway this afternoon with my father. All the plants are in bloom, the oranges are falling off of the trees, and every room is adorned with immaculately arranged flowers. My grandmother…lets call her Chile Relleno…has impeccable taste and highly cultivated skills when it comes to throwing dinner parties. She was throwing one tonight and I was nervous but excited to meet her friends and share in their company. I was also nervous as hell because I was going to meet her new boyfriend. They’d been dating for a year now and in old people time that’s quite a while. You know, things get pretty serious pretty fast when you’re staring down father death.

We had a lovely cocktail hour, followed by red meat, creamed vegetables, and pie. Post dinner cordials and coffee in the sun room made it official: I was back in the South. All the over 80 guests got slightly buzzed, probed me with questions about California, and reminisced about the good ‘ol days. Such a picturesque night could only be followed by a picturesque cigar by the pool with dad…

Shoot, I’ve put off giving him a name long enough, and for what’s coming next he dang well earned one. From now on dad will be known as Chimichanga (or “Chimi” for short). 

Chile Relleno and her charming new boyfriend (our meeting went well) had just announced they would be retiring for the night, so Chimichanga and I go to the pool area to have our cigar, reflect on the day, and bond. The lawn chair cushions were a tad damp with dew and Chimi suggests I flip them over before I sit, so that I don’t get my white cotton dress wet. (I have a history with sitting on dewy surfaces…see my past blog about Pork Sausage). It’s dark so I flip the cushion, spin about, and plop down. OUCH! I must have sat on an ol’ sticker burr. OUCH! I jumped up and turned around to dust away the vicious sticker burr. Wait a second. Was that sticker burr moving or was it just a shadow from the pool’s reflection or…

“Hey watch it there I think there’s some wasps on that cushion,” Chimichanga chimes in two ouches too late. In true hypochondriac form the pain in my bum went from a prick to a stab. Chimi offers a new realization “Is that a nest?”

Chimichanga got up to inspect the suspicious nest and I started realizing that I had either just experienced the most vicious phantom sticker burr prick ever, or those mother effing wasps stung me right in the buttocks. The pain was no longer mentally exaggerated. It had that burning venomous essence.  

“AH CRAP,” I exhaled as I grabbed my left butt cheek. “Those wasps stung me in the ASS!!!” I waddled into the kitchen on my designer heels with a cigar in one hand and my tender tush in the other, half laughing half panicking. Chimichanga is chasing after me yelling “put some ice on it!” I bust through the screen door and there is Chile Relleno and her boyfriend whispering in the kitchen. 


“Burrito, what happened?” Chile Relleno blurts out at me (obviously in half shock that I stormed in the room dancing like a pepto bismol commercial). “I sat on a wasps nest!” I eek. Chile Relleno suggests I put baking soda on it and soon my cigar is being replaced with a pack of ice and a box of Arm and Hammer. I can feel my rump swelling and I recall a scene from the Will Smith classic “Hitch.”


Chimichanga races into his room and returns with 4 children’s chewable Benadryl… he unwraps one and hands it to me. I look at him trying to raise one eyebrow. “Seriously?” He hands me the other three and jets away so I can dress the wound. I start in on chewing the four Benadryl as I lift up my apparently flimsy skirt to examine the damage: two stingers right in the kisser. SHOOT! I didn’t know wasps could leave stingers?! And through the dress? COME ON! I limp down the hall to Chimichanga’s room, wrap on the door, and meekly peek in.

“Dad, I know you haven’t seen my ass since I was 3 and that this may be borderline perverted, but I’ve got two stingers in my but and…..well Chile Relleno can barely see….” Chimichanga grabs his glasses sits on the foot of the bed and beckons me over.

I’m dying. This just seems so wrong. I bend over and wince in embarrassment more than pain at this point. Chimi is trying to be as clinical as possible. Suddenly, I feel a deeper prick.

“OUCH, what are you doing?” I yell
“Squeezing it out.”
“Nononono! You’re suppose to use a credit card or the back of a knife or something and scrape it right? What if you push it further in or release more venom or whatever!? I’ve seen this on Oprah. Dr. OZ.”
“Too late.”
“Dang it!”
“Put that ice on it now”
I pulled down my skirt. Yelled thanks and ran off in ultimate humiliation. My 59 year old father had just squeezed my 25 year old ass…. albeit to help me out of a very extreme medical predicament, but still. I took off in a blaze!
After I stuffed an ice pack up my cotton shorts and taped it in place I threw on some keds and returned to the scene of the crime to have my cigar. I needed a smoke now more than ever. Chimichanga was already there clearing the rest of the lawn chairs. When we finally settled in…me slightly lopsided. Chile Relleno’s boyfriend came out sat down next to us and promptly asked for our consent to marry Chile Relleno. Seriously? I get stung in the ass and he proposes. That kids Benadryl was starting to kick in. I mumbled my approval and hobbled to bed. I needed to pass out before things got weirder.


*Had to wait to post this ’til Chile Relleno formally announced her engagement.  Congratulations you two! 

Apr 26 2009

The Cause

Hey Kids.

OUCH.  I bit the hell out of my lip the other day driving down Wilshire.  And you all know how you keep biting it after that.  I got pretty  in there.  Looked like one of those botched plastic surgery job pictures that they use to worn people against getting vanity procedures done in Mexico with.  How?  Shoot.  I wont lie to yall.  I was eating frozen yogurt while driving. Pinkberry with chocolate chips to be exact.  Eating and driving is always a hazard.  So I accept the occasional consequences.  Though, it would have been cool if I had been doing something feisty like passing out at a bar face first after having a shot drinking contest a la Marion Ravenwood in Indiana Jones.  But, ALAS!  It was another casualty of fatti-ism.  

Adding insult to injury, after laboriously finishing off my pinkberry (which is infinitely harder to do with a fat lip btw), I get close to my destination and find BOOM protest going on, must divert.  DIVERT?!  Diversion no good.  That protest was going on right in front of my final destination!  I pull off road and park a few blocks away.  I had an errand to run and I didn’t drive all the way to shotty miracle mile, fight my way through a large pinkberry (okay YEAH it was a large, suck on it), and severely alter my physical appearance to just give up.    I got out of my car and prepared to walk 3 whole blocks on my Cloe platforms.  Ewww.  Walking in LA.  I put my aviators on, tilt my head down, and pushed through the impending crowd.

It was crawling with Armenians.  TONS of Armenians.  Waving their flags, honking their horns, chanting, dressed in black, and angry. I looked around for an alternative route to my destination.  There was no apparent alternative, at least not one that involved less walking.  I had to join the march cause the march lead directly to my point of interest.  I melted into the crowd and tried to blend in, but this was a bit difficult seeing that #1 I didn’t have a flag or shirt or any distinguishing paraphernalia, and #2 I wasn’t Armenian.  

The crowd was moving at a moderate pace and if I could avoid the news crews and professional photographers it would be like it never happened.  That’s about the time an old Armenian woman grabbed my forearm looked me deep in the eyes with that sole stirring old-person stare and urged me to join her in chanting “Turkey must pay for the genocide!”  Genocide?  That sounded bad.  Someone else thrust a sign in my hand and I felt a push from behind.  ”Turkey must pay for the genocide! Turkey must pay for the genocide!” I kept chanting and moving.  Too involved now.  Cameras clicking.  Yipes.  If I end up on the front of some local paper, no good?   I got to the end of the line where the march circled back around.  My target was in sight.  I dropped the sign and ran.  As soon as I got inside the sliding glass doors I trotted up to the receptionist.  

“Dude!  There’s a protest outside.”
“I know.  It’s the anniversary of The Armenian Holocaust.”
“OH!  Like the one that happened 100 years ago!  Phew. I thought those Turks were at it again.  Wait, they’re still upset about that?  Way to hold a grudge Armenia. Welp.  CU later.”  

I finished my errand and walked back outside.  Looking at the growing mass, I contemplated walking the 12 block detour to get to my car without heading back through the crowd.  My shoes were holding up, but my nerves weren’t (plus my lip was starting to throb a bit).  I mustered my Armenian mojo and charged forward.


Ah crap it was my printer.  He totally recognized me from the day before when we had an impromptu heart to heart about good customer service. He approached me with his entire family.  I mean the guy was pushing a stroller.  I couldn’t pretend like I didn’t see him.

“Burrito, this is my family.  I did not know you were involved with the cause!”

Yeah.  Neither did I.


Apr 23 2009

New Site

Hey Kids!

Welcome to my new site. If you hate it tell me… I won’t change it but it will make me smile that you cared enough to say something icky and will give me an excuse to feel depressed enough to justify daytime drinking.


Apr 22 2009


Hey Kids!

Mmmmmmmm my coffee taste delish this morning.  Like gingerbread.  You’d think gingerbread in April would seem nonsensical, but it is quite yummy.  Just got back from hitting the sand dunes with Pork Sausage.  Its this killer mound of sand in Manhattan Beach that you climb up and down while your loins froth with pain.  PS bounds up that thing like a gazelle, hair perfectly coiffed…in fact someone literally complimented her hair half way through the work out…no joke, while I wheeze like an english bull dog.  This was my second time battling the dune. The first time PS informed me that non-pussies did the dune barefoot.  That shit is cold at the but crack of dawn, so I put on shoes and was demoted to pussy.  I did eek some feelgood out of the workout as I passed a 300 pound biggest loser cast off, but that joy was short lived when a wrinkly 60 year old man pulled up next to me.  This time PS and I met half way and did it in socks.  I brought matching pairs of bright yellow and green knee highs I scored at the Heineken Experience in Amsterdam a few years back.  It was a family vacation.  Like beer Disney Land. We were so happy back then….
I’m feeling super motivated this morning due to an eye opening experience last night.  See, lately I’ve decided that I need to get back to my roots. Really explore and connect with who I am, where I came from, how I got to be.  So I’m going to start doing musical theatre again.    WAIT WAIT let me explain!   I just wanna dance.  No, that doesn’t sound right.  I just wanna sing.  Dern.   I just want an outlet for my suppressed childhood dream of growing up to be Cassie in “A Chorus Line” or “Sandy” in Grease*  That sounds respectable.  At least my therapist would be proud.  So in order to enjoy musical theatre and not see it as yet another forum to be judged and fail at, I’ve decided to just go to any and every audition I encounter to hone my singing and build my character, whether it’s for a Les Miserables on Broadway or Menopause, the musical at a 99 seat on Santa Monica Blvd.  
This eye opening experience I speak of  involved me auditioning for a little ditty called ECSTASY.  Now even though on paper this thing sounds like Guffman’s BLANE!, I rolled in.  For extra hilarity I sang 16 bars of Olivia Newton John’s song Physical, writhing and touching myself as I crooned “there’s nothing left to talk about unless it’s horizontally.”  Had a blast, but I’m pretty sure the ECSTASY people were horrified.  Whatever.  They were the ones doing a musical about drugs.  Drove home feeling proud of myself for getting back on that pony, smug for pulling off Physical, and totally sure that that was the last I’d see of the ECSTASY people.  You can imagine my shock when they called me back the next day.  Dance call.  I was terrified, haven’t properly danced in years… Although I did tell them that I could dance very well at the audition, I just neglected to finish that sentence with I could dance very well in 2001.  
And wouldn’t you know.  I kinda did alright in the dance audition.   Granted it was a hooker dance, so that helped…and explained the Physical score, but still.     I’m back people.  Audition circuit beware.  I may not be very good or appropriate or very good, but I’m coming.  God help us if someone is actually crazy enough to cast me in anything.
*Obviously, now that I’m older  and I can properly comprehend what these characters were actually saying and doing, I don’t really care to be a washed up New York dancer with a failed acting career or good girl transfer student who throws away her future to wear leather pants with the class rebel.  

Apr 21 2009

Texas BBQ

Hey Kids.

I gotta tell you I’m getting pretty antsy being home. Missing LA, which is something I never thought that I would say and truly mean. BUT I do. 

Last night was a real zinger. While in Florida I saw some beautiful sand hill cranes moseying cross a golf green I was chillin on, and Chimi said something like “they make good eat’n.” I was all “you shoot those things?” And he’s “oh yeah! There’s a four month hunting season for them in Texas. That’s why you don’t see them just walking around like you do here.” 

Hmmmmm. “Well, what do they taste like?”
“Kind of like speckled belly goose.”
“Sounds delicious. Got any at home?”
“A few, want me to grill some up?”
“What does that mean?”
“Um, yeah Dad. Lets grill some when we get back to Houston. Early next week.”

So, I can mention like a bazillion things to Chimi. His memory is pretty spotty usually, except when it pertains to two categories: money and grilling. Monday morning he was defrosting two sand hill cranes to be marinated and prepped for a ceremonious grill the following night. 

And it WAS ceremonious…as all wild game cooking is with Chimichanga. You know, it took ’til I went away to college in California to realize that not everyone grew up eating the same food I did.  It just didn’t seem out of the ordinary to be served protein with pellet shots in it. I guess when I got shunned for tasting dog on a school trip to China, I should have figured out that my family’s eating habits were a bit more…exotic. Even when I did realize though, it wasn’t ’tilCarne Asada brought a Tiger tenderloin home the summer after my junior year that I had to put a foot down. (After having some of the worst night terrors of my life following a Bear sirloin two nights before, I was actually starting to take the whole “you are what you eat” thing to heart…then again it would be pretty cool to be a Tiger, dang it!)  So my point is, sand hill crane for dinner is not out of the ordinary ’round here.

Chimichanga cooked that thing to perfection. It was delicious! Very dark meat. So dark that he confused it with a venison back strap at first. It was gamey and complex and ridiculously lean. Not an ounce o fat on that wild bird. I mean talk about cage free! This thing was slaughtered migrating over a rice patty field. I enjoyed every bite. Now, for those of you who don’t know what a sand hill crane looks like, google it. They are pretty big and have legs as long as a flamingo, but meatier. I was going to town on it when…. 

Our fire alarm suddenly went off. Not a fire in sight, but the key pad claimed it was coming from a secret upstairs closet. The fire department showed up along with the neighborhood cops to interrupt our diner and clear the house. They kept asking us where the secret closet was, and we kept saying the alarm company had labeled it wrong cause we didn’t have a secret closet. 

“Dude, we don’t have a panic room if that’s what you’re getting at” I said as I clutched ourdipshit dog who was chomping at the bit. I’m not a racist but unfortunately our dog is, and this guy was Djimon Hounsou black. 

“Well, I wouldn’t be surprised. You have a basement.” 

See we live in hurricane country. Swamp land. The Gulf Coast. Our house is technically a museum in US age and whatever Victorian idiots plopped down in Houston and constructed it were sadly without a doppler radar, cause they put in a basement…and every time there is a little rain, that thing floods. Brilliantly my parents use it as a work room for the Mexican housekeepers. 

The team continued to look around the house for a suspicious fire although we all agreed it was probably a low battery sensor. Still, on a night shift these guys love to stretch out a nice neighborhood visit by snooping in every room. When we got to the kitchen ‘ol Djmon noticed the huge ass bird leg sticking out of our serving dish. “Oh, yall bbq some chicken tonight?”Chimichanga was quick to correct him.

“No! no no, that’s sand hill crane.” 
“You’re eating crane?”
“Wow. WELL! Looks like we’re done here.”

You’d think that bird had AIDS on it. Djmon and crew were out the door, our dog chasing behind. After the door slammed behind them Dad summed up the night with this juggernaut….

“Wait. Maybe the secret closet is the gun closet. I can’t remember if I locked it.”

Don’t mess with Texas, Kids.


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 16 2009

Yearbook Yipes

Hey Kids.

Just came across my high school senior yearbook. Wow. I hope I’ve gotten better looking or my dreams of becoming a Hollywood actress are more delusional than I thought. Yipes.

I blame my friends. Somebody should have said something. The 80s may have been cruel to everyone with it’s hawking of neon and perms, but the 90s somehow made fatties (AKA yours truly) think it was okay to wear middies (damn you Britney Spears). Although, I can’t blame the decade for a pale complexion. That was all me. Thank god I discovered the medical woes and physical joys of tanning in college.

Also, why did I think I was cool for giving up cheerleading to pursue my true passions of jazz choir and golf? Even if somehow this was an obvious good choice at the time, the pictures suggest otherwise. Now, I WAS a cheerleader in middle school, but the only proof of that in the yearbook is me wedged into a group shot, clad in our old school “bib” uniform, and holding a soft pretzel. I’m the only cheerleader holding a soft pretzel…or any food for that matter.

Hmmmmmmm. And I wondered why they never let me be a flyer.


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.