Let me tell you something about BurritoVille.
When I lived in the City, I always had the privilege of either living or working near a mexican take-out chain named BurritoVille. At the time there were about 200 such establishments peppered throughout the neighborhoods from river to shining river, so so did about 40,000 other people, but still, it was a special place to me. Some women treat themselves to a manicure. A facial. Shoe shopping at Henri Bendel (I don’t know??). My treat was a giant vegetarian burrito made with soy products. Yes, your mother is that lame.
After consuming said burrito, which more accurately resembled a brick, along with a large black bean soup and multiple refillings of salsa and chips (in store they were free! Can you imagine, for a poor twenty-something?) I would inevitably be immobile on the couch, hence this ‘Ville of wonder became reserved for special occasions when I could succumb to being a vegetable, and when I say “special” I mean being hungover, being hungover at work (which is ten times worse), or, when I lived with your father, when he was either away on business or was not going to be home that night until late. He was not a fan of Burritoville. I can’t imagine why. I mean once your Aunt Shelly ordered for delivery and got a fork wrapped up in her burrito, but you know Aunt Shelly, she can get that tone when ordering food sometimes that might merit someone to wrap up a fork and stick it to her, so that doesn’t count.
One Mega Soy Burrito, please, made of tempeh, tofu sour cream, soy cheese, brown rice, red beans, and guacamole…And, if I was picking this bad boy up in store, I’d also pop into a bodega and pick up a carton of ice cream for dessert or a snack to much on while watching whatever terrible movie was on TBS when I got home. The perfect evening, wasabi peas and “Chasing Liberty…”
(Si, su madre is que cojo.)
Shoot to present day, your father is away, and everyone keeps asking if I need help or telling me to come sleep over.
What they don’t understand is, unless your father is home at six o’clock, every night it’s like he is “away.” I do dinner, bath, bedtime by myself pretty much every night. So I got this. It’s a piece of cake.
But what they really don’t understand, is that I have a fridge full of tofu and soy products. A counter stacked with pumpkin-flavored baked goods which your father cannot stand.
Tonight, after you guys go to bed, I am going to curl up on the couch and look for the best worst movie I can find, I’m sure TBS will pull through with something (I never did see “The Ghosts of Girlfriends Past”).
I am going to eat all of my soy products. All of my pumpkin spiced baked goods.
Tonight I am the host of the world’s worst sleepover party with one guest.
Tonight, I am going to BurritoVille.