Tuesday, May 29, 2012

Mexico And The City (MATC): Revenge of the Sopa

Ingredients for this My Time: Immodium AD, Hint flavored water, bed, an Iphone, a gay life partner.

Well hello there, Honey. What are you doing? Oh, that's nice. Work, vacay, coffee, morning cocktails. Your life sounds so normal and nice. Oh, me? Thanks for asking. I'm here. You know. Here. Let me tell you how it began.

I was in the Mexico City airport, again, as an elegant woman finds herself in occasionally. Whilst before there I had seen a strange yet alluring man playing a ukelele and humming a tune, following me with his gaze while I was trying to eat my huevos rancheros WITH NO CHEESE in private shame, and I thought, who is this strange man, and should I talk to him
Dr. Suess-shaped-face of musicians
it was already too late. Thus, another husband squandered due to your little Dag stuffing her face with LOVE AND SAFETY. While men can do things like compete in "The Biscuit Challenge" for no gain, emotional or physical--just pure prowess and intrigue--we women, as you will see below, have deep emotional bonds with our eating. But this time, I was on a return trip to Los Angeles, or as Shas of Sunset call it, Tehrangelos

I was remembering my incredible arrival into MX City when I found a whole new kind of lover

who I sang to, with all my heart, how you're my best friend, but I am just to close to love you, but I can't stop loving you, but I am too close to love you 

After working so hard on the final chapter of my project, I shoveled that good lovin' in (under a large, expensive sun hat, of course, to hide my shame and orgasmic glory, which often go hand-in-hand), and celebrated a special day in any woman's life who has worked an office job and gets off in time for the happy hour at Acapulco Restaurant and Bar while still wearing tan stockings and a poly-blend suit jacket with diminutive shoulder pads--like only an inch thick--
But you know what I was thinking on this return trip to the airport, on my way back to the Shas who live and love in "the ghettos of Beverly Hills," as they say? I was thinking, no Dagmar. If you ever want to get married again (haha, I kid, I was thinking, if you ever want increase your alimony payments by getting another divorce. haha I kid again, I was thinking about how all I want is love and the roll around my waist named WineChips and the lines on my delicate pale skin will prevent that from ever happening haha) you better learn some manners. So what did I do, Honey? I ordered the clear vegetable soup with chicken broth. Consomme. Can you believe it?

Upon arriving to my summer home in Malibu-Lite, I started to feel a little, how should I put it, effervescent on the inside. Having recently purchased a diamond-studded IPhone, I immediately went to text various rich friends to tell them what I was experiencing a little to much of. Realizing my fingers are far too fat to text on the IPhone, I was resolved in my choice to order the consomme. Honey, I said to myself in the bathroom mirror one of the fifty times I was in there, I'm asking you to change your ways. As I tried to punch the fucking so fucking little letter keys with my long, elegant, feminine nails, "it was then that I realized," a phrase spoken on Sex and City almost as many times as I was running to the bathroom (seriously, you want to click on and read that link immediately), that my fingers weren't the problem. My elegance was. I ordered a sopa like a lady. I had long, perfect nails. Why was this horrible thing happening to me? Once I could, I did what every rich, lonely straight (unless we're talking big money) woman does, I texted my gay male life partner to explain my situation. Now, on SATC, if the vapid Carrie Bradshaw had texted her gay male buddy, he surely would have bemoaned her state, sent her flowers, and canceled a date with a model to be with her. Because he'd be rich and for some reason Carrie B. is like a gold-dusted chocolate fountain to everyone in SATC's New York.
Good Job, Sociopath.

But my gayelle life partner, raised in the buffets of Hawaii, the only place buffets in the USA have been shut down by the amount of eating the masses can do, responds: "Hahahahaha." And then, "at least you'll lose some weight." And then, after I explained that this concern is what got me in this mess in the first place, as I ordered soup over nachos, he tells me: "Big mistake. Bitch it's always about nachos."
"It was then that I realized"
It's true; it is always about nachos. And that's the lesson here. I've learned it for all of us, Honey, so you don't have to go through what I am right now. I can't even drink red wine! Sure, a white wine spritzer between runs to the gold-plated toilet seat, but nay a Bourdeaux in my Bourdeaux-hole.

Written upon my deathbed,

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