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.

 This is an unofficial, off-the-record version of the sort of report I'm required to write when people misbehave or get generally unruly. The official version is one sentence long and doesn't attribute adjectives of blame, which I believe paint a better picture.

A deaf patron hastily approached to employ my help in a matter that had her fuming. There's a tacit (haha) agreement between us that if she points, I can usually figure out what the problem is.

Today it was two stupid twenty somethings jamming two chairs in a spot for one, thus impeding on the lady's own, already cramped, computer space. I diplomatically told the stupid boys that we have rules against sharing computers by cramming chairs inside rows, because if we didn't, inconsiderate dumb asses would do it all the time, and then I offered to move them to an end computer.

"That's all she had to say!" snipped one boy loudly with indignation.

"Instead she's been flailing her arms, screaming at us," added the other for sympathy.

"She can't talk, you idiot," came a voice from a few rows back.

I'm glad someone said what I could only suggest with an askance stare.

While sitting on the pot checking my email with Eugenio's iPhone, the ad above my inbox reads, "Suffering from constant constipation?" Well, as a matter of fact, no, I'm not. If your ads were more sophisticated and could sense where I am and what I'm doing at all times, not just the anal retentive google searches, then you would know that. But you're pretty witty.

That's the future of marketing. Google will just squeeze my hand the way my mother did, without all the questions.

I typed this all by phone and will probably delete it later.

Whenever we win the lottery or Eugenio becomes the breakout star of Real Apartment Husbands of Orlando -- whichever comes first -- I want to buy a big ass bed. Right now we're two (and too) tired, grumpy adults pissing each other off each night while trying to defend spaces and desired positions in our polly pocket bed.

My dream-big goal includes rolling over for days and not feeling his body heat. I've been going through menopause since the age of 20 (I'm just guessing that's what my problem is). My life these past years has been one constant hot flash. Plus, we live in fucking Florida and sleep like sardines.

I work with folks who don't have homes and thus beds, so I can't complain too much without feeling ashamed, but large beds definitely make up a lot of my lustful thoughts these days. Neno dreams of fancy cars and babies; I just want a perfect, selfish night of sleep before we introduce additional chaos. Hierarchy of needs and what not.