You know, aside from the obvious alien kicking me in the gut several times a day and the ever-expanding waistline.
So yesterday I found myself in an area outside of Baltimore where I rarely venture. After my errand was complete, I realized I just may be near the only Sonic in the region. After getting hooked on Cherry Limeades while living in Georgia, I couldn’t just pass up the opportunity. Turns out, it was four miles away from my current location. Let’s do lunch!
Now, I am a picky eater. Like extremely picky. I eat everything plain. Dry, plain, meat, bun, possibly cheese, that’s it. God help my mother when there was ketchup on my burger when I was little. Or now. ANYWAY.
This is what my typical hot dog looks like:
This is what ended up in my hungry little paws yesterday after car-hop delivery:
Looks a little different than my normal fare, eh?
That, my friends, is a Chicago dog (sans tomato). Onions, relish, mustard and other shit I’m not even sure. Celery salt. Obviously a pickle. I don’t know what I was thinking. Why did I order this? Is there even a hot dog in there? I just wasted my money. Would they take it back? At least I had tots and my limeade so it wasn’t a total bust.
Oh. OH. IT WAS NOT A TOTAL BUST.
I ate the whole damn thing. And then I wondered what was wrong with me. And then I blamed Little A. And then I looked in the rearview mirror and wasn’t even sure who was looking back at me. Also, I had to double check to make sure there wasn’t mustard on my face.
When I got home, I found out it was Chicago’s Birthday. So fate brought me and baby and that disgusting delicious mess of a hot dog together. And it was good.