Over the weekend, I came down with a bad case of quesadillas.
It’s a lot like tacositis, only cheesier and just as contagious. It’s a real medical condition. Look it up. I swear I suffer from it like every other Wednesday morning. I fear I might also be coming down with churrosis of the liver, but that’s another matter entirely.
Anyway, I served the quesadillas with a side of sour cream and salsa. Unfortunately, I learned firsthand that quesadillas and energetic Latin dances do not mix.
In hindsight, I probably should have realized this before attempting a particularly ambitious hip maneuver while holding a loaded tortilla.
The quesadilla survived.
The salsa did not.
Now I have a stubborn stain on my carpeting. I mean, having a stain is bad enough… let alone having one that’s stubborn. No matter how much I try to reason with it, it still refuses to believe tacositis is really a thing.
Now instead of needing a doctor to cure the feverish way I devour tacos on a regular basis, I probably have a greater need for a Rug Doctor. It may not be an actual doctor per se, but hopefully it still has some Tums in its little black bag.
I have a feeling that, because of all the tacos I’ve been eating, my digestive system is about to go south.
South of the border, that is.
At that point, a case of the quesadillas or a disagreeable stain on the carpet might be the least of my worries.
My biggest concern is why the Rug Doctor and the Roomba are suddenly doing the Rumba.
One Latin dance-related mess for the week is more than enough. Especially after Quesazilla just finished rampaging through my living room doing something that looked suspiciously like the Samba.