Television Torment

Watching cable TV is torturous.
But I'm not talking 'The Bachelor' torture.

Because when Lacy-Hacy insists on watching a bunch of skanky bimbos pretend to fall in 'love' with a complete stranger, I am in my very own private hell.

No, no. I'm talking about a different kind of torture.
The kind of torture that takes place when you decide to watch 'Diners, Drive-ins and Dives' at 10 PM and suddenly have the urge to eat something wrapped in bacon and deep-fried.

That show is so deliciously addicting. I can't help but watch it every time it's on. And Guy Fieri? He's my hero. I want his job. So, so much.

If you're unfamiliar with the program, he pretty much travels around the US, visiting odd or unique little eateries that have been submitted as the best in the country and taste-tests all of their delicious food.

He's been to Utah several times: to the Red Iguana, Blue Plate Diner and, my favorite, Ruth's Diner up Immigration Canyon. It's the perfect place to eat after you visit the zoo. I highly recommend it.

As if that weren't torture enough! Every other commercial during the break is for Popeye's chicken & biscuits. Or at least, that's what it feels like.

And there's only ONE in Utah. At Hill Air Force Base, which is only accessible for those associated to military personnel.

This is cruel and inhumane treatment, I tell you.
Sure. Taunt viewers with delicious crispy goodness and then tell them that they can't have even if they wanted to.

Someone should put an end to this villainy.
That, or I could just stop watching cable...

*psh*

Let's not be ridonkulous.

Taco 'Bells & Whistles'

I've heard that some people can't handle retirement.
They've spent their entire lives filling their days with specifics tasks. And when all of that goes away, they don't know what to do with themselves.

I guess I can say the same about my 'semi-retirement'.
I really did have full intention of letting my blogging phase die out.

But I just can't do it apparently, because today I had another "I should blog this" moment again. It's a bit ridiculous how they're starting to pop up at such a rapid pace.

I guess that's what happens when you become so adept at your job that you finish eight hours of work in five and you have to find a way to fill that spare time somehow. (And NO Gem, I don't take a nap.)

Anyways... the blog moment for today revolves around Taco Bell and my addiction to the newly returned Beefy Crunch Burrito.

That thing is freakin' delicious and only $.99 my friends.
I'm generally not a spicy fan, but it has the perfect cheese to beef to sour cream to Flamin' Hot Fritos proportion.

And don't forget the Crispy Potato Soft Taco.

No one seems to know about this little guy and it's an absolute travesty because it is just so gosh darn good.

And as if I could forget my newest obsession, the plain ole' Chicken Burrito.

'Plain ole'' used loosely here to mean 'absolutely fantastic'.

I used to take Taco Bell for granted. Sad but true.

I thought it was entirely inferior to Taco Time and their crispy burritos.

But, oh, I've changed my ways.

Lesson learned. Course corrected.

I won't make that mistake again.

Because everyday, I find myself craving some more deliciousness wrapped in a warm flour tortilla.

Speaking of which, it is most definitely lunchtime.

And I'm making' a bee-line for the Bell.

Happy, Happy, Joy, Joy.

So... whoopsie.
Last post was only my 97th post.

I'm heading back to kindergarten so that I can learn to count and hop on one foot.

I was also pleasantly informed that my supposed celebratory '100th post' was a Debbie-downer. I thought I was just being my slightly pessimistic normal self but apparently not.

So, sorry for that, I'll try to keep this post full of sunshine, rainbows and unicorn poop.

I thought of titling it 'White Trash', considering I plan to write about garbage and I can't count worth a flying pitchfork, but that didn't exude quite the amount of sugar and fairy dust that I am going for.

Katerina Cupcake needs to see my happy blog face, gosh dang it.

So just pretend I'm dancing around, patting small children on the head and blowing bubbles while you're reading this; then we should be good to go.

Something I've noticed of late is that I'm rather OCD when it comes to picking up garbage. (Me?... OCD?... Crazy, right?)

Regardless of what bathroom I'm in, if (by the time I leave) there are still small pieces of paper towel left on the floor, well... let's put it this way. I don't leave until there is nothing left on the floor.

Same goes with spilled soap on the counter or black hairs in the sink. They're gone when I'm gone, baby.

I don't know what it is, but something deep down inside me can't handle the thought of leaving garbage untouched two-feet from the trashcan. My shoulder devil wants to murder whoever so carelessly, and lazily I might add, dropped it there in the first place while my shoulder angel wants crawl around on all fours to make sure everything is tidy for the next bathroom customer.

I'm sure several of you (*cough* mom) are writhing in agony at the thought of all those germs I'm exposing myself to, but may I point out that all of the germ-a-phobes I am in acquaintance with are mothers to at least 5 children. Children are bio-hazards waiting to happen. Point proven.

But I'm sorry to say that the fetish doesn't end there.
I'm starting to find myself picking up old receipts stuck in the fence on my way to work, stale Cheerios on the chapel floor and, dare I say it, used tissues on a park bench.

I need serious help.

So, combining that and my apparent lack of counting skills,
looks like I'm becoming a janitor.