SelfAbsorbed.ME : ‘It’s Your Life, We Just Write it Funnier’

This is a tale of love and forbidden passion, an account of humiliation and loss, an ode to one of life’s treasures. But mostly, this is a story of a girl and her dog.

Her hot dog.

Hot dogs might be my favorite food. While I get cravings for particular foods every once in a while, everything from steak burritos to crème brulée to baby carrots, I always feel like eating a hot dog, anytime, anywhere. But, over the years, this attitude has been met with, uh, a little adversity.

Due to a recent experience (that will be revealed all in good time, I assure you), I’ve decided to dedicate this week to my beloved hot dog and all that we’ve been through.

At the end of my sixth-grade year, I was at a peripheral friend’s twelfth birthday party. She was a close friend of close friends and we were in a bunch of classes together: two circumstances that apparently qualified me for the invite list. It was a slumber party. You know, the kind of event where everyone admits to having a crush on the same two or three boys and it’s best not to fall asleep or you might end up with your hand in hot water and a puddle in your sleeping bag.

Peripheral Friend’s dad, let’s call him Mr. Peripheral Friend, was grilling for dinner and there would be ice cream cake for dessert. Oh boy! Mr. Peripheral Friend came in and asked what everyone wanted: hamburgers or hot dogs. I happened to be the first to place my order: “Hot dog, please.”

Following my order, the rest of the party, at least a dozen girls, demurely ordered hamburgers.

Peripheral Friend’s horrifyingly hot eighth-grade brother requested a double hamburger. He was stoned, or so I’d heard. At the time, I thought that meant that his parents had beaten him, and I was relieved to see that he was being fed. Then he came over and whispered something in Peripheral Friend’s ear before walking out of the room.

Peripheral Friend looked scandalized and then burst into high-pitched giggles.

“What?! What?!” everyone asked, collectively dying with anticipation. Peripheral Friend pursed her lips, raised her eyebrows, and cocked her head, the signature let-me-hold-this-over-you-bitches-for-one-more-second-so-we-can-all-acknowledge
-that-I’m-better-than-you look of a sixth-grade girl. Then she announced: “Timmy said that whoever ordered the hot dog must really like to suck it.”

The collective “scream-giggle” that followed was almost unbearable. In my experience, when it comes to a situation like this, the majority of adolescent girls are either clams or skunks: they either close up and shut down completely, or they retaliate, spraying all kinds of foulness about others to take the heat off of themselves. I was clam. I was clamming up big time.

“Uh. I just like them. Like, a lot.” was all I could think to say, a response that only initiated more giggle-fits. It sounded like I was in a room full of Tickle-Me-Elmos.

However, conversation quickly moved on to the rumor about whether or not Tiffany Johnson had touched Sam Decker’s thing when they were sitting in the back of the bus coming back from the science museum field trip.

Minutes later, the whole hot dog outburst felt miles away, just another forgotten rest stop on the tween highway. Please, God, full speed ahead, I prayed.

A few minutes later, Horrifyingly Hot Brother wandered back in the room, wondering if the food was ready. “Soon!” Mr. Peripheral Friend called from the porch. I cringed a little at the thought of actually having to eat my hot dog in front of everyone and hoped that the lone dog no longer remained a point of interest.

Horrifyingly Hot Brother leaned against the wall in the corner of the room and stared at the ceiling. All of us chatted away and pretended not to care that he was there. Which meant people said things like, “I’m totally just going to turn in the paper that my older sister wrote for that class. Whatever.” And, “I’m just so sick of middle school dances already.”

Then Mr. Peripheral Friend opened the porch door with a tray full of steaming meat.

“Okay,” He announced. “Who’s eatin’ the weenie?”

The room erupted in peels of tween laughter, mingled with the stoned-cold roars of Horrifyingly Hot Brother. I was off hot dogs for the rest of middle school.

Stay tuned for Part II…Faking It: The Tale of a Tofu Dog

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