1. It’s hard to get into a restaurant when full but stupid people are blocking the way.
Okay, I understand that the 47 pounds of spicy, fried lard that you just ate might slow you down a bit. Got it. But seriously, why are you finding it necessary to come to a complete halt in this tiny lobby? I can’t even open the door all the way because you are lodged at the cashier’s desk, telling your life story while the rest of your amazingly extensive family is standing there, wiping grease off their chins and belching.
Quit talking to that cashier. She is not your friend and she doesn’t care. She is only being nice to you because you just handed her money. “Did you enjoy your meal?” is not an invitation for you to start babbling about how your gout is acting up and you might have to have something removed. Grab a complimentary toothpick and GO. Geez.
2. I am apparently not as fond of screaming, hyperactive children as the rest of the world.
Dear Hostess Person. No, I’m not going to follow you to that table which you are indicating. Why? Do you see what’s going on at the next table? The one where something has apparently exploded, causing small humans to lose their minds and start throwing food while howling at a decibel level that can bring down a plane? There’s queso on the ceiling, for God’s sake. I don’t want to be anywhere near that.
And don’t look at me in confusion, wondering why I don’t find the howlers to be adorable little tykes that make me want to hug and kiss them. These are not the good kind of children, who quietly sit there and do nothing but count as a deduction on income tax returns. These are Satanic products hell-bent on destroying civilization. I don’t even want to be in the same room with the Children of the Corn. If you have to build another room real quick so that I don’t have to hear them, please do so. Hurry.
3. It is a law of nature that you must order margaritas in a Mexican restaurant.
I don’t care what time of day it is, tequila just sets the appropriate tone, and somehow biologically prepares your body for the impending influx of food items that your doctor has warned you to never touch again. (He’s not here right now, so screw him.) And don’t ask me dumb-ass questions like whether I want a large or small margarita. Can you not tell by the pinched expression on my face that I have no desire for an alcoholic beverage served in a teacup? I want BIG. If I need to run to Home Depot and buy a five-gallon bucket, I can do that.
And yes I want salt on the rim. Tons of it. I want there to be so much salt on that thing that people will think I’m doing cocaine, causing Al Pacino and Michelle Pfeiffer to stroll into the building and join us for nachos.
4. Everything on the menu at Ojeda’s is the best thing ever.
You can’t go wrong. Close your eyes, stab at the menu, and try it. You’ll squeal with a level of satisfaction that is nearly orgasmic. Not that anybody will hear you over the howlers in the other room shoving tamales up each others’ noses.
5. Tequila makes me talk.
Before I even finished the first beverage, I was rambling away about anything that popped into my head. Anything. This is a change of pace for my partner and I, because he’s usually the one to share his thoughts with any person, place or thing that will listen, while I just sit there and nod from time to time. But dump some tequila down my throat and I will share every single thought that enters my alcohol-drenched brain.
6. Puffed tacos rule!
I’d never even heard of these things before we started going to Ojeda’s years ago, but now I can’t get enough of them. They’re like little tiny taco salads in a fried Christmas ornament. We should have a national holiday for the person who invented these. Not kidding. I can gnaw my way through several of them before my bulging stomach starts to raise the table off the floor and we have stability issues.
7. Tequila and some people don’t mix.
I’m talking about YOU, moron three tables over. First of all, why the hell are you yelling everything that you say? What’s up with that? Your equally-soused tablemate is right there. He can hear you just fine. There’s no need for this “raising the dead” business. Inside voice, please.
And second, why you gotta start talking about Obama like that? Do you really want me to toss aside my napkin, drag my groaning ass out this booth, march over there, and beat the crap out of you with a chile relleno? I don’t think you do. So shut UP.
8. Music sung in a foreign language is pleasing when you’re buzzed.
Typically, mariachi music is not my favorite. It’s just too insistent. But with a bit of inebriation, I’m transported to another world. It was truly divine and beautiful. I actually shed a few tears over this one song, where Yolanda did something something with some huevos, and people where offended by this and she was shunned forever, forced to wear used clothing and get her own water from the well. It was so sad. I asked our server if there was a place I could send money. He brought me another margarita instead.
9. Your plate does not have to be empty before rude people want to take it.
No, I am not ready for you to take this. Look, there’s a little bit of rice over here, and at least two spoonfuls of refried beans, and part of a puffed taco. This is a feast. There is no reason for you to be inquiring about the relocation of my tableware at this point. Yes, I understand that lately my focus has been on the straw in my margarita, but there’s no need for you to get demanding about my consumption process. When it’s time, I’ll ring a bell, okay? We’re going to tip you. Relax.
10. It’s much more fun when you aren’t the one who has to drive home after the margarita fest.
Terry has to pay attention and not kill people. All I have to do is sing and tell everybody what I think about unrelated topics like bratwurst and why Angelina Jolie’s lips are so big. So I did. All the way home. At one point, Terry was eyeing nearby cliffs with a desperate yearning in his eyes. I really wasn’t ready for a plunge into eternal darkness, so I eventually had to talk about things that might interest him as well, even though it pained me and ruined my conversational rhythm.
Finally, we made it home, where I joyously switched from margaritas to beer. Because mixing types of alcohol is such a good idea. The next morning, my uvula was swollen to the size of a Buick, I had no concept of what my name might be, and I quietly begged for Death to take me now. But all in all, it was a great birthday.
And I sure do love those puffed tacos…
Puffed tacos are the BEST! And, reminds me of the movie (Batteries Not Included.) LOL
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