Hot DOG!

There's just no denying it. I love a good hotdog. Takes me right back to my childhood and to years past when I took my girls to watch the Albuquerque Dukes play on ball fields that stirred up more earth than a stampede of New Mexico dust devils (back when the Dukes were a Dodgers farm team). It's not commonly known, but other than the carby bun and the lips and assholes, hotdogs are super healthy for you. I mean, about that, I'm willing to suspend disbelief. Or reality. Whatever. Same thing.

So yesterday, while visiting my niece in Houston, I walked in on my niece's husband just as he sat down on the couch to watch NASCAR with five—count 'em, FIVE—hotdogs loaded with chili and cheese. It looked like a Talladega pile-up all over his plate, which he was about to lap up.

I was like, Dude, you hungry? You know that's gonna be bad news later for anyone unlucky enough to be in your—er, air space. Of course, he knew that; and, like a guy, he thought that'd be funny. And as a one-o-the-boys kind of girl, I thought that'd be funny too. Man, did those dogs smell good!

So I went to the stove and loaded up a plump and juicy dog on a bun, with onions and a whipped-cream portion of mustard. No relish, but that's okay cuz relish is totally bad for you. Yum, right? Just in time for the 3-hour drive home with my two daughters and a coupla kids in the back seat.

Heh, heh. THAT was funny.

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