That's what would cheer me up right now. A couple of juicy fish tacos, dripping with sauce.
And something needs to cheer me up. Because I'm ready to call the suicide hotline. And why is that? Well, it's because I've gone from 70 degrees and sunny to 39 degrees and raining. From roses and bird of paradise and jasmine and citrus trees in bloom to a few scraggly-looking snow drops and a lot of mud. From a beautiful hotel with room service, turn-down service, daily maid service and no clutter to a house with a dire need for not one but two post-construction projects-worth of cleaning, decluttering, and organizing. And who's wearing the maid's uniform? That's right. I am.
And on top of that, I find that Friday's lunch, the fish tacos cited above, are actually not so much a variety of foodstuff as they are a euphemism for the female genitalia, or poontang. I found this out via your comments.*
This means that while I thought I was treating my reader to an enjoyable travelogue, I was actually getting all smutty, blathering away about eating pussy.
And so, to cheer myself up, I'm going to go do a Google search for "fish taco." I may even make it a Google image search, I haven't decided yet. It's a little early in the day for dirty pictures, but desperate times call for desperate measures.
* In my comment box. BOX, get it?