Payday.
And that means "groceries"!
We're trying to be good and live within our means.
Eating what's in the house.
Cleaning out the freezer.
Actually, we're practicing for poverty so when we're older, Social Security disappears, and Obamacare makes medical go through the roof, we won't be all that surprised.
Just depressed.
Very, very depressed.
Anyway we're trying.
And God comes through, like He always does.
Turkey hot dogs.
On sale.
99 cents a pack.
Oh yeah, baby!
And buns are on sale, too.
How cool is that, eh?!
Ralph Nader once called the hot dog "America's deadlist missle" -
and that was the all-beef ones.
Turkey-chicken-&-pork-parts 'dogs must be honkin' Kryptonite.
Oh yeah, baby!
Me and hot dogs go way back.
Specifically, back to a great Technicolor/Kodak moment.
It involved a grade-school birthday party, Bruce Serber, a hot dog, and ballistics.
Mom had invited a gaggle of boys over for my birthday party.
Games, hats, gifts - it was great!
We sat down at the table for lunch.
Mom had gone all out.
A white linen table cloth, bright birthday napkins, silverware, glasses, and real plates all circling a huge double-layer chocolate cake.
The table sparkled and glittered.
(Looking back from my own parental perspective, setting a table like that for a bunch of 3rd Grade boys is like decorating the town before Attila and the Horde arrive.)
We all got a hot dog.
With a bun.
And unlimited condiments.
(Read that to mean that Mom,
the only adult present,
went into the kitchen for awhile.)
Bruce took that moment to make a memory.
(A little background on Bruce.
He's the kid that makes a Sunday School teacher reach for a crucifix pending the exorcism.
Or a quick pull or two on a hip flask.
It depends on your denomination.)
Bruce stood up and reached for the mustard.
After baptizing the 'dog in its Wonder Bun-ed garment, he then, in the spirit of ecumenicalism,
hit it again with the ketchup.
His family believed in total immersion.
He gently picked up the slightly-oozing bun.
Switching his grip, he wrapped it with both hands, like those heralds in King Arthur movies.
Or a pygmy with a blowgun.
Either one will work.
"Ooooh, boy!", he beamed as he brought it to his mouth.
That was about the time that Mom walked in.
And then he squeezed the bun.
Wow.
It was like watching those movies where the ICBM missile comes outta the silo.
But more horizontal.
Wow.
Half-a-century later, it plays through my mind in slow motion.
The colors still vibrant, the sounds still clear . . .
The hot dog blasting out of the bun, trailing globs of yellow and red, its pink tube straining for the ionosphere.
Mom's eyes going wide.
And wider.
Her mouth starting to make that parental command that most of us heard first -
"N-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o".
The 'dog's arc taking it head-high before gravity brings it crashing down, barely missing the cake, to bounce and roll down the middle of the table.
It finally stops, laying in a puddle of yellow and red that bleeds slowly into a white linen table cloth.
Wow.
It was like being there at Kitty Hawk.
But I don't think Orville and Wilbur's mom had the same reaction.
Because they were outside.
And didn't try to land on her tablecloth.
Yep. Hot dogs.
They don't taste like much, but I like 'em.
They remind me of ... fun.