Jun 7 2011

Name Blame Game

Hey Kids!

I have a habit of naming parts of myself that I take issue with or just plain don’t like: pimples, a bad hair cut, extra weight. This way I can hate an aspect of myself without actually hating myself. I’m much better at blaming someone else for my problems, anyway. Just ask my shrink….or my mother.

For example, I call my extra weight “Janet.” When I eat too much ice cream and my thighs rub together I just say “DAMN IT JANET” or “MISS JACKSON” if it’s nasty. I went through a period of time when I thought I would look sexy as a red head. And if your definition of sexy is a dirty Russian whore, then yes I did. Until I got it back to a semblance of normal color I called my hair “Olga.” When my dating life slowed and my love of vodka got excessive, I blamed Olga (she was such a drunk whore).

This strange habit started in college when, one sunny Sunday, I made my first and last attempt at becoming bulimic. I quickly learned that self-start vomiting was harder than those skinny bitches in my sorority made it look. With them it was so adorably natural, like a little baby burping. Alas, when I tried to pull the proverbial trigger, I looked like Schwarzenegger in “Total Recall.” Not as cute.

All that straining caused a blood vessel to pop in my eye and those things don’t just disappear. They get bigger and bigger until your entire eye is blood red. If I was auditioning as the host of a zombie virus a la “28 Days Later,” I would have been set. But, I wasn’t. I was going to college parties and trying to pull tail. So, instead of telling the truth about my botched bulimia, I just told everyone that this shit in my eye was a bitch named “Poppy” who’d crashed my brain and made me do crazy things like wear mid-drift bearing lace dresses and take beer bongs…often at the same time.

It became an ongoing joke I could bask in rather than hide from. It worked so well that a mildly attractive frat guy actually tried to get with me. He said he’d never had a “threesome.” I think he wanted to cum in my eye, so I respectfully declined.

Still, it had opened up a whole new world to me. Why should I be self-conscious about my blemishes when I could make them someone else and mock them out right? I’m really good at judging other people. So now I use my weakness to play to my strength.

Recently a pimple named “George” decided to visit my face unannounced. When I went out, he’d come too and I’d introduce myself as “Burrito and this is my pimple, George.” People would greet him with aplomb and my boyfriend even kissed him goodnight. Eventually he got the memo and moved on. We parted ways on good terms, although I have been meaning to talk to my boyfriend about etiquette and face guests.

Earlier today Pork Sausage texted me. She was a bit testy, claiming that I gave her my pimple. “Oh no, no that’s not me,” I said. “That’s George.”


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!”


Oct 25 2010

Throw Like a Girl

Hey Kids.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What a metaphor for my life.


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.


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,

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 16 2010

Current Beef: The Name Game

Hey Kids.

Just checked the sign in sheet for an audition I’m on and the girl before me is named “Nebula.” Seriously? Her parents must be a real trip. At best they’re astronauts or quantum physicist, at worst they’re existential hippies or misguided scientologists. L. Ron Hubbard wasn’t even THAT cruel. What blows my mind more than dear Nebula, is the name of the girl signed in after me: Ashlin.

At first glance I’m sure you’d say “What’s the Beef?” Here’s the beef my friend: weird spellings and name combining/making up. I hate that! I hate it when parents have neither the gall to name their children something normal, nor the cojones to name them something crazy. They want a name that is “unique,” but safe. So they put a twist on the original, like spell Henry with a “I,” Chris with a “K,” or Ashlynn with an “in.” I once ran into an Alison who spelt her name Alycen (named after her aunt Alyce) and a Michelle who spelt her name M’shell (M’shell was black so I cut her a little slack. Like the inner city kid that Pork Sausage recently tutored named La-ah. Pronounced LaDASHa. Not kidding.) At least Nebula’s parents fucking put it out there.

Which brings me back to Ashlin. What’s worse than the spelling is the origin. Ashlynn is a Hybrid name that wasn’t invented until the 1980s (research, son). Couldn’t make a decision could we? Ashley or Lynn. So you mixed them. And in mixing them you exposed yourself as a weak human being and doomed your kids to the same genetic shortcoming. Indecisiveness is a prominent sign of weakness. In separate interviews Martha Stewart, Anna Wintour, and Oprah all sited decisiveness as they’re strongest trait. Their kids names are Charles and Katherine, Alexis, and no kids….respectively. Guess little Ashlin is fucked on the entreprenuer tip.

The latest offender of hybrid names is Katherine Heigel. Look at the fucking sweet ass NORMAL name your mother gave you and you slap her in the face by naming your kid Naleigh? Hmm shall we call her Nancy or Leigh? Why choose?! It’s not confusing enough that that poor Asian baby is gonna grow up with white parents, but the name too!?

And those fucking TWILIGHT books aren’t helping the situation AT ALL, thank you very much. Probably the worst offender to date! If you can top this, I’ll be a born again Christian because miracles DO exist. **Spoiler alert if you haven’t read “Breaking Dawn”** Bella names her fucking half-breed kid Renesmee. RENESMEE? In case you’re wondering in Gods green earth how one would come to that ridiculous name and how the hell you pronounce it, here’s the breakdown. It’s a hybrid of the kid’s grandmother’s names Rene and Esme: Renesmee. If she wasn’t already imprinted on by that Graduate-emulating-pervo Jacob, I’d say the girl was going to have a rough go in the dating world. I know its fiction but COME ON!

I could go on, but I won’t. For those of you that know my real moniker, you might call me a hypocrite. Well you can suck on it.


Jun 13 2010

Self Improvement

Hey Kids.

So I’m not one of those ladies who like wants her man to lie to her. I prefer ‘em to tell it like it is. For reals. I recently took one of those Myer Briggs test and it was like “you are the type that likes criticism.” ‘Cause I see it as a chance for self-improvement. Unfortunately others don’t so much. But I continue to criticize them anyway. Like all my ex-boyfriends. Which, now that I think about it, could have contributed to the fall out.

Por ejemplo, I recently ran into an Ex at a party and I was like 10 pounds skinnier and 4 shades blonder than when I was with him. He was all “Burrito, you look great. Have you lost weight? I love your hair. God, I’m so attracted to you right now. Mrr mrr mrr” And I’m thinking, “See! Now there ya go! If you’d maybe mentioned that you would have found me more attractive had I been skinnier and blonder, we could have avoided this whole break up unpleasantry.” I mean, I told him when I thought his hair looked gay and that he needed to whiten his teeth. So, I think we know who’s to blame with that one.

Relationships aside, I began to think about critiques I’d received lately and how I could use them for self-improvement. Most of the ones I could recall were boxing related, like to fully rotate my wrist when throwing a right cross or remembering to hit with the shins on a roundhouse kick. This reminded me that I should avoid fighting publicly since I hadn’t learned defensive moves yet. But, as they say, the best defense IS a good offense (Try telling THAT to a horny teenager, am I right?).

Other critiques included two drunk 40 year olds at a bar telling me that I should be a model and to take more shots, as well as a transient advising me to “Bless Off.” When I said I didn’t have any spare change to give her.

Being me, I respectfully decided to NOT take any of their advise, ALTHOUGH I did appreciate it…especially the model comment. I wasn’t feeling very self-improved but I was certainly glad those men didn’t lie to me. I do need to take more shots.


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.