I don't remember precisely what we were talking about, something about cheating, obviously, when Eugenio uttered a phrase I'd never heard. Why eat hamburgers when you have steak at home.

The conversation in my head went directly to dismissing this phrase as defeating its own purpose, because sometimes a hamburger is preferable, right? And then the whole piece of meat thing.

He must have known I'd over think it. Later that night when we were having a moment, because we're gross, he said, "You're my steak...and I'm your burrito."

Oh, snap.

Every day this blog gets traffic from people searching for "calories in a coronarita." I imagine a lot of disappointment upon finding this drunk girl embarrassingly rambling, without mentioning an actual calorie count, after I imbibed a semi-homemade knock-off concoction. I need to delete that post. I need to delete this entire blog. But I feel like I can provide a service, give people what they're looking for.

So here you have it. I like to imagine you waking up in a strangers bed with hazy details about last night,  panicked, grabbing for your phone, as if knowing your caloric intake will put you back in control of your life. You find weight watchers doesn't have the stats for dosaritas and coronaritas yet and neither does your calorie tracker app. Relax. I'll tell you:

LOL!You added a beer to a corn syrupy, sugary, salty alcoholic beverage the size of your face. It's about too fucking many calories to even be concerned about anymore. It was so good though, right?! I had a bucket sized dosarita (the real deal, finally) in Houston a few months ago. It was satisfying and headachy and bloating enough to never want to even taste one again, like washing down an entire chocolate cake with tacos. In fact, there's bile in my mouth right now just thinking about it (sorry).

If you want to get drunk on a diet, just stick with the tequila and don't eat anything ever. OK? Just kidding. Anyway, a beer has about 150 calories, a big ass margarita like the one you probably drank has about 550 calories. For the mathematically challenged, that's 700 calories or over two times the daily allowance for anorectics. But let's be real, you probably drank more than that. The better question is, what did you do afterwards? Also, unsolicited food for thought: we're all going to die.

We're going to the beach on Saturday and Sunday to celebrate our anniversary. We booked the hotel. I've been whining about the Florida winter heat for months, but here comes a short cold front to coincide with my pale skin in a bikini. Well played, Universe.

After a night of little sleep, this monkey affects me more than it normally would. Normally it would just leave me giddy and teary eyed. I don't even care about caring right now, or el cuidar, the character trait the library is promoting this month, I just care about cuteness.

Look at that face. I don't want to have a baby. I want to have a baby monkey. Science is working on that, right? Designer babies and such.

This reminds me of when my little sister Emma and I cruelly yet hilariously convinced Molly, the youngest, that she was a monkey our parents adopted at the zoo. Molly was the cutest kid ever. She was also super sensitive and gullible, as I guess all coddled 4 year olds are. But this was the Carr house, so she needed to Buck Up. Plus she was the youngest of seven, so my parents had already given up. Molly got away with some pretty ridiculous shit, as my mother blamed it all on the fictitious evil twin, Dolly. Oh, no. That couldn't have been my Molly. That must have been Dolly. Molly used this excuse handed to her on a silver platter often. My mom would even pretend to beat us in the bathroom, banging on the wall, whispering, "Pretend to scream from pain," in order to make diabolical, innocent, conniving, sensitive Molly-Dolly smile after a minor infraction on her rights as spoiled, youngest child, like pointing and laughing at her when she got the remote control car stuck in her hair again.

So, we felt it was our duty to humble her a bit.

"Molly, think about it. You're the only person in this family who has red hair. You're the only person in this family who has curly hair," I reasoned, using my intimidating, 9 years old superiority.

"You also have lots of freckles. We only have a few," 7 years old Emma added.

We were banking on the fact that Molly wouldn't realise that most monkeys don't have curly red hair nor freckles.

Before Molly could run for comfort, and as Emma continued to provide proof -- did Molly ever recall being born? -- I charged down the stairs to get my mother in on it.


"Mom, if Molly asks if she's a monkey we adopted from the zoo, say yes! I'll rub your back!" I blurted out in one breath, because I knew that woman would sell her kid to the devil for a back rub.

"For how long?"

"Twenty minutes!"

"Thirty."

"Fine!"

"Deal."

Wild haired Molly slowly walked down the stairs, one slow step at a time, like a drama queen, asking through watery eyes, in all seriousness, if she was an adopted monkey.

"Well, yes honey." Mom replied with a compassionate tone and furrowed brow, in an Oscar worthy moment, before we all caved and told Molly we were joking after she cried that cute-sad, child cry which makes you laugh while hoping no psychological damage is being done.

Molly got a ton of sympathy for her crying, mom got her back rub, and Em and I got the satisfaction of tricking Mo into believing she was actually a monkey. In that moment her face looked exactly like this:

It's one of those nights when I'm reading a really good book at the expense of sleeping. I just stopped in the kitchen for a midnight snack. I always get hungry again if I stay up long enough, and as a rule, I never go to bed hungry, because then I'll fantasize about food while my stomach growls and then be absolutely useless the next day.  So I make myself a piece of toast with peanut butter. It's natural peanut butter, which needs jelly or honey for flavor. I realise we are out of jelly and honey, so I sprinkle some sugar straight from the 5lb bag. Except it wasn't sugar, it was flour. I'm in no mood for starting over, so I dust as much flour off as possible and eat it anyway.

This has been the most noteworthy thing that happened to me today, besides the misunderstanding Neno and I had over my agreement to go to a work related recruitment dinner with him, sucking up my anxiety and hatred of talking to strangers, in the name of moral support, though he actually didn't need my support, because unlike myself he is a normal grown ass person, but merely invited me so that I would feel involved, so once we finally realized we were both unnecessarily trying to fulfill unnecessary marital obligations, I got to take off the makeup and stifling clothes and watch webisodes in my underwear while he went out to secure a future job...but then he came home early because it sucked and then we ate frozen pizza in our underwear together.