Burrito by Bullets

My problem is that I’m too nice. When I was on my honeymoon and the pizza waitress served up a big ole pepperoni pizza instead of the mushroom one I ordered, and my brand new husband said, “Can’t you just eat it?” I dined on greasy pepperoni and smiled graciously.

When the movie rental place suggested I pony up $50 in late fines for movies I knew I returned on time, I smiled, handed the clerk my membership card, and walked away forever.

When the fat lady in the tight (sheer) bathing suit wanted to be friends at the local amusement park. . .well, I ran and hid behind my kids on that one, but now I AM the fat lady in the tight (not sheer) bathing suit, so you see how it works.

The movie rental place went out of business. The pizza place has become a shop for cheap souvenirs. The husband is now known as The Defendant and has been replaced with a dashing pirate captain.

So I never saw the need to go all Rambo in the face of suburban unrest.

Until now.

Out in Texas, where the bad times are bigger, Taco Bell jacked up the price on the crunchy beef burritos an additional fifty cents. And if burritos are crunchy here in South Carolina, I can just imagine the crackle they carry deep in the heart of Texas.

And the man ordered seven. SEVEN BURRITOS. I don’t let my kids eat a taco without a license, and this man wanted to wolf down seven burritos surrounded by innocent byproducts.

The price gouging would add an extra three and a half bucks to his total. Highway robbery on a grand scale! So it’s perfectly understandable that this man—we’ll call him the Burrito Bandito just because it sounds big enough for Texas—brought out the firepower when he found out about the price increase.

Now I can work up a perfectly good pout over the price of gasoline, but this is gas of another color. When he headed out to his trusty energy-efficient ride and laid out his assault rifle on the sunroof, the Taco Bell manager, who probably has never played the role of bullseye, even on TV, locked up and called the police.

After a three-hour standoff at a nearby motel that did not provide room service, not even chips and salsa, to our amigo, the affair was settled.

The tacos still cost the same, but now there’s a bigger price. And the Burrito Bandito never did get his authentic American Mexican food. Which is probably a good thing.

Because, really, seven burritos? Now that’s assault with a deadly weapon.

Beauty Buffet

My mother religiously practiced the Pond’s 7-day Beauty Plan for forty years. I figure if it didn’t work for her in four decades it won’t do me any good to jump on it as a last resort. I wash my face with whatever soap product is melting in the dish and leave off my glasses when I look in the mirror. For all I know, I look terrific.

Why is it that some of us inherit all the withered branches a family tree has to offer and the slobbering weasels of the family get all the good stuff? I got my mom’s body type and the shape of her legs, which were like parentheses from the knees down and crescent rolls from the knees up. I can look in the mirror and see all the food groups represented in my body. Don’t think I enjoy sitting on this rump roast.

With as many can’t miss beauty plans advertised on the market today, it seems like I could find one that would turn my rolls into flatbread. There are plenty of doctors willing to gather up all the folds and trim off the excess. The whole thing seems to be sort of like making a pie crust. Anything that hangs over the sides gets lopped off and redistributed to more deserving areas. They should be able to fashion extra people with all the extra material. We could harvest enough excess flesh from my thighs to create Victoria’s Secret models that resemble humans instead of uncooked spaghetti.

I finally found a beauty routine that seemed likely to make a difference. You use an avocado, two slices of cucumber, and a tomato, and serve it with a large pan of burritos. You won’t be any better looking, but with everybody crowding the buffet table at your dinner parties, no one will notice.

Make My Day

Due to a recent flurry of incidental gunplay at the mall, there’s a new policy calling for youth under 18 to be chaperoned on the weekends while conducting the teenage business of flirting and attempted murder. The idea is to cut down on youthful shenanigans and gangland activity. I’m sure the mall management people mean well and have every intention of securing the safety and happiness of the great community of man, early Christmas shoppers, and vacationing tourists with large amounts of traveler’s checks. The trouble is that they’re policing the wrong group.

They need to keep their electronic eye on people like me.

If I have to try on one more pair of black latex hip hugger pants, they’re gonna have a lot more than warring gang members to contend with. I didn’t bear the regulation two children to be confronted with sixteen racks of clothes designed to show not only my stretch marks, but my emergency C-Section and the scar from the unfortunate hot burrito incident.

And since when are hipbones considered fashion accessories? I’d like a little warmth around the navel base now that winter is on the way. When there’s a frost warning, I want to worry about my plants, not my pants. And at this point in life, my love handles are far too similar to bungee cords to be considered cute.

I know they make clothes for mature women, clothes where coordinating trousers (with clever under-the-armpit fit) and tops hang together conveniently to allow for ease of selection. When the women in my community visit the mall, they come home with shopping bags full of the same outfits. When they get together, it looks like league bowling night at the Star Lanes. I’m not quite ready for polyester pull-ups. All I ask for is a pair of pants that doesn’t make my behind look like a levee.

So the bright minds at the mall had better think a little more about the ammunition they’re selling instead of the fire power that’s coming in the door, because the next time I’m confronted with 72 tiny pairs of jeans with pockets the size of age spots, I just might lose my control panel.

And Mallers, unless you want trouble, don’t even think about starting swimsuit season early. I don’t want to see an ocean-going outfit until I get the pumpkin pie off my thighs. But if you’re feeling lucky, go ahead. Make my day.