Jul 27 2011

Breaking Lent

Hey Kids.

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

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

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

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

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


Jul 21 2011


Hey Kids.

Meatballs is my new love.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I wish you had.”

“Well now you know.”

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


Jul 14 2011

A Different Proposal

Hey Kids,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

Just a thought.


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