we would be best friends because of hot dogs

I just bought Kristin Chenoweth's newest CD—Coming Home. She recorded it at a live concert in Broken Arrow, OK, her hometown, and listening to it, I wish I had been her next door neighbor growing up. She's so familiar and so at ease telling stories of her little town (that isn't all that little, truth be told). As she sings "Hard Times Come Again No More," you can believe that all of America is this idyllic small town, this blend of River City, Pleasantville, and Stars Hollow.

It isn't, of course, but as I sing along with Kristin to "Over the Rainbow," I like to pretend.

As often happens in our very connected world now, listening led to googling, looking for videos of Kristin in concert. I stumbled on this clip of her on Conan O'Brien where she talks about how much she loves chain restaurants, fast food, and specifically Sonic. She giggles as she praises the cheese taters and how you can get a cranberry slushie if you want to be healthy, and Conan is convinced that Kristin is secretly being paid by Sonic to promote them.

"No, I wish they would call me! I just love them and would love to do a commercial for them!" she says so genuinely that I just know, should we ever meet, we will bond over how under these classy exteriors, all we really want is a hot dog.

never take a pug to a carnival

"But seriously, imagine this: A pug on a Ferris wheel is an awesome mental picture."

This is pretty much the level of conversation I'm up for an a Friday night—dreaming about adorable pug pictures that would instantly go viral.

With some coaxing, I might also be up for talking about how my day went or what I'm looking forward to over the weekend, but let's face it, by Friday night, I just want to wear my pajama pants and lay on the couch.

On this particular Friday night, I was doing just that, only replace the pajama pants with workout clothes. By some burst of energy miracle, I had made it to the gym after work, where, while doing sit-ups and push-ups and calf raises, I imagined that I was already at home, curled up under an afghan knitted by my great-grandmother.

Workout motivation tip: You know how you're supposed to envision how you want your workout to go? I do this when I have a race: I imagine what the race will be like, including such realistic details as "that panicked feeling you get when you realize you need to spit but that there are too many people around to do it safely."

A little mental preparation can help in a big way, but then I've found that when you're actually in the midst of your workout/run, it's best to imagine what you'll be doing later. Pep talks can only get you so far; it's far better to imagine the coffee you'll drink at brunch after the race {and the bacon! Never forget to think about the bacon!}.

Or in the case of my Friday night workout, it was better to think about laying down and not having to think or do much of anything for the rest of the night. Distract yourself: That's my workout motivation tip, one I hope you'll use and report back to me about how wonderfully it worked.

So I was on the couch, texting a good friend who was being a good sport about my typical Friday-evening-randomness, when the pug on a Ferris wheel image came to me and I sent her that message above.

You're probably either in awe of my imagination or concerned for my thought process {I'm assuming the former, by the way}, so I will offer this by way of explanation for my pug image: The carnival is in town.

Doesn't that explain everything? How could I walk past a Ferris wheel every day on my way to the train and not think of how a pug would react to spinning high above her town in what is essentially a swinging bucket?

{You're thinking about it now, too, aren't you?}

Here's how the conversation went:
Me: I am about to walk Miss Daisy, but then I really need to eat. You know those times when nothing sounds good? This in one of those times.

Allow me to jump in here and say—I had so much to eat at home. There was roast chicken and vegetables, eggplant gratin, a salad with an orange balsamic vinaigrette, and pear clafoutis. I could've made French toast or an omelet or a grilled cheese sandwich. Heck, I could've eaten cereal.

But every time I thought of something to eat, my inner toddler screamed, "NO!" That girl is so demanding and picky sometimes.

Me: BUT WAIT: I just had an excellent dinner thought. The carnival is in town. CORNDOG.

Patient Friend Who Listened to My Dinner Decisions and Hopefully Didn't Roll Her Eyes: Corndog all the way. If I were with you, I'd get a funnel cake. And cotton candy.

That response proves why we're friends and why I'm 99% sure she wasn't rolling her eyes at my dinner quandary: because she gets just as excited by food as I do.

Me: Then Daisy and I shall ride the Ferris wheel.

Patient Friend: Hahahahaha....

Me: But seriously, imagine this: A pug on a Ferris wheel is an awesome mental picture.

And to the carnival we went, my pug and I. The night was cool—shockingly cool for mid-May, and I don't just mean that I had to wear a light spring jacket. I mean that it had snowed earlier in the day, an occurrence that flummoxed us all, even though we have just survived the coldest, snowiest winter I can remember. Snow in mid-May? What are we, Minnesotan?

I formed a plan as I walked over: if there were a lot of people at the carnival, Daisy and I would keep walking and I would force myself to suck it up and eat some roast chicken at home, even though that is no corndog. Crowds tend to overwhelm her, and I didn't know how safe it would be for a pug in a carnival. She might be taken in by one of the carnies, unaware that the games were fixed and she'd most likely not win a new stuffed animal.

But the cool night kept most people away from the carnival because who wants a lemon shake-up when the temperature is much closer to freezing than you'd like to admit? Giving Daisy a few notes on dealing with carnies, I walked her up to the corndog stand.

As I paid, I felt her tug on the leash, and I looked down to see an absolutely panicked pug staring up at the Ferris wheel.

It must've been the bright lights—don't they draw us all in? But given how Daisy was rooted to the ground, frozen as all those bright lights twinkled towards her from the slowly-rotating Ferris wheel, I can only assume that it looked like some sort of giant fireball coming straight at her.

While I know she couldn't possibly have understood that 1) I had suggested taking her on a Ferris wheel, 2) I had most definitely been joking when I said that, and 3) pugs aren't allowed on Ferris wheels to begin with, I still felt bad for even thinking about it. You would've, too, if you'd seen her cower from the Ferris wheel. In fact, if you had been there, you probably would've been yelling at me at this point and taking away my corndog.

I bent down to reassure Miss Daisy, and my movement broke her spell. She looked away from the fireball, shook her head, and suddenly realized that all around her was a magic land of dropped food. French fries. Corndog sticks that still had some breading on them. And her favorite: chewed gum.

She did her spin of excitement and took to licking everything she could find that looked like food, and even some things that were clearly just rocks.

Oh, the carnival! It holds such possibility, doesn't it? One minute, you can be rigid with terror and the next moment, you can be eating bad-for-you food. This is what we all know about the carnival, and this is what Miss Daisy experienced for the first time on Friday night.


------------

PS I was going to insert a picture of a pug on a Ferris wheel, but the Internet holds no such picture that I can find. I believe this is an untapped adorable picture market.

I did, however, discover through auto-fill {you know, when Google tries to guess ahead to what you're searching for, based on what other people have searched for} that the following searches are popular {as they should be}:

• "pugs riding in cars"
• "pugs riding unicorns"
• "pug riding a Roomba"
• "pugs in The Hobbit"
• "pugs in fancy dress"

5 things that prove I love Garrison Keillor

My love of Garrison Keillor has finally paid off, in the way only an English major raised on a steady intake of A Prairie Home Companion would consider a pay off:

As a promotion for his new CD, My Little Town, he's doing a "submit your favorite story about your little town" contest, and he picked this thing I wrote to publish on his site. {I'll tell you more about the thing in a minute.}

  Note several things:

• I keep saying "he," as if Garrison is there coding the submission form. {You can see it for yourself and admire his handiwork. Such a renaissance man, he is.}
• Or as if he's staying up past his bedtime reading submissions from people around the country who are trying to make their town sound like Lake Wobegon.
• I mean, I realize that Garrison probably didn't actually read my poem, but I'm going to pretend. After years of listening to him him spin tales about a town that seemed so familiar and home-like to me, I'm going to pretend that he read about my little town—out loud, obviously, in that deep, nostalgia-creating voice of his—and thought to himself, 'Well, oh my, I'd like to go to this town this Kamiah girl is from. Maybe the next time I'm doing my show at Ravinia, I'll pop out to Glen Ellyn and visit her. We'd get along like gangbusters.' I just know he'd use the word gangbusters.

Yes, I'm going to pretend that my poem has now become one of Garrison Keillor's favorites.

In my mind, he's going to read it on that Writer's Almanac podcast of his someday {which I just wrote about yesterday. Garrison and I are already displaying best-friends-who-think-alike behavior}.

Please don't take my fantasy away from me, but give an NPR nerd her moment in the pale Minnesota sun that's shining down on Lake Wobegon right now.

A Little More about This Thing I Wrote

All you had to do was tell a story about your hometown, and I, in a rare moment of turning my back on Iowa, submitted a poem about Glen Ellyn that I wrote about two years ago. The carnival comes to town every year, and there is nothing like the smell of corndogs to put me in a poetry mood. {That's just the kind of statement Garrison would relate to.}

You can read the poem here on my blog.

Or, if you'd like to see it in its Prairie Home Companion glory, you can see it here. {You, sadly, have to scroll down to the bottom. I need to call Garry and get him to put my poem on the top.}

So, there you have it: Garrison Keillor is, I'm sure, going to visit Glen Ellyn soon in order to meet me. If he comes during the carnival, I would most definitely buy him a funnel cake.

The following list may help really convince him that he should come.

5 Things that Prove I Love Garrison Keillor

1. I own this t-shirt:
   
   It is, for those of you who don't know {I scoff at you}, the shirt for the Professional Organization of English Majors, this group that Garrison made up and sometimes does sketches about. If it were real, you know I'd belong.
   
   If you're an English major and you'd like a shirt, too, you should order one from Garrison.
2. I once met him—at Tanglewood. My family, we're kind of Garrison groupies, and we went out to western Massachusetts to see him do his show live one summer. Afterwards, we stood in line to meet him. When he heard my name, he said, "Kamiah. Kamiah. That sounds like a name that belongs in a limerick," which is not something I've ever had said to me before, nor is it the conversation I envisioned having with him, but that is all right.
3. When I was in middle school, someone asked what I liked to listen to on the radio. I said, "A Prairie Home Companion," before I realized that I should've said, "Really awesome music that kids my age would know."
   
   That experience mirrors the time in elementary school when we were asked our favorite band, and I said, "Peter, Paul, and Mary."
4. My parents go on the Prairie Home Companion cruises almost every summer. I realize this doesn't really prove why I love Garrison, but it clearly shows that it's in the blood.
5. Someone once told me, "Your stories sound like something Garrison Keillor would tell. You're like a 30something girl version of him." I had just recently met the person, and I wanted to hug them. That is the 3rd best compliment I've ever received.

still not tina fey

It came from FedEx just the other day: my opportunity to be Tina Fey.

It was not glasses like hers because I will admit: I already have glasses like hers—not because I bought them to imitate her but because she and I have such similar taste {we're like best friends who haven't met, but that sounds creepy and more than a little odd to base your best friendships on glasses choices}.

Nor was it a job offer to be a head writer for Saturday Night Live because 1) I've never applied for that, 2) pretty sure, having never done improv, I'm not qualified for it, and 3) I bet Lorne Michaels doesn't use FedEx for job offers.

In that FedEx envelope was an American Express card—a corporate American Express card, FedExed from my company's corporate headquarters in New Jersey.

As I ripped open the envelope, the 30 Rock theme start playing. In my head, but then I sang it so that everyone in my office knew I was having my Tina Fey moment.

Finally, I can re-enact this commercial the next time I go to the airport and run into Martin Scorsese {which, for the record, has obviously never happened because trust me, you would've heard about it by now. This corporate American Express card is going to bring so many stories into my life, I just know it}.

Another Way I Will Be Like Tina Fey: Commercial Proof


I will be able to get into the Admirals' Club! Where I will be able to discuss unique opportunities! * {See explanatory note below, in case you're wondering if I just accidentally put in an asterisk.}

This corporate American Express card, combined with my great love of hot dogs and organization/schedules—just like Tina Fey {okay, really, just like Liz Lemon}—will cement my Tina Fey-ness.

But then, at the end of the commercial {which I immediately googled after opening my FedEx envelope}, I noticed something: Tina's card didn't look quite like mine. It looked—better. More silvery. Less like a corporate card.

Next stop on the Internet: the American Express site, which expressly told me that while I'm privileged to be a cardholder {and thank you, Corporate Office, for giving me this card! I do appreciate it!}, I'm still not Tina Fey.

My card will not get me into the Admirals' Club. Or any of the other airline lounges.

If I went to a place that was called, by some bad idea of marketing, The Airline Lounge, I could use my card to pay for the food, of course, but that's not nearly the same thing as being Tina Fey.

And to that I say: BLERGH.




*Confession about the Admirals' Club: I've actually been in the Admirals' Club, several times even {not to rub it in, but did I mention that it was several times?}.

I know there aren't a whole lot of unique opportunities being discussed in there. It's mostly business-y people talking on their cell phones about mergers and stock performances and blah-blah-blah other business-speak words.

Come to think of it: Unique opportunity is a business-speak word, and whenever I hear it, I immediately judge the person using it and mentally note that their opportunity is probably either 1) run-of-the-mill, or 2) expensive and unnecessary.

But the Admirals' Club does have good snacks; I will say that. That in and of itself is a unique opportunity in an airport, unless the airport has a hot dog stand, in which case, that stand is the best unique opportunity. {See?? Just like Liz Lemon: so into food that is bad for me / potentially isn't even food.}

on the virtues of bowl food

It is past 2pm, and I have just sat down to eat lunch. Because I've just come home from a trip, my pantry is rather bare, and my meals have taken on an eccentric flair.

Honey Nut Cheerios, followed by handfuls of candy corn and peanuts.

Toasted English muffin and potato chips.

So many variations of grilled cheese.

But for lunch at work, I ran out of options when I ran out of peanut butter yesterday, and so here I am at Boston Market with a Market Bowl in front of me.

This is the obvious and only possible end to my dearth of food: to reach a point where I am so hungry for something of value that I—literally—order all my comfort foods and have them presented to me in a bowl.

Chicken.
Mashed potatoes.
Corn.
Gravy.

Yes.

Perhaps you've seen a commercial for this and thought: WHO would eat that? Isn't it just like those KFC Bowls* but maybe—MAYBE—healthier because it uses rotisserie chicken and not fried chicken {that may or may not actually be chicken}?

I am here to say to you: I would eat that.

I once was like you, disdaining the Bowl that's advertised as "Eat Anytime, Anywhere," which, when you think about it, pretty much sums up the root of America's obesity epidemic.

But then—so many good stories hinge on a game-changer phrase like that—but then, I was faced with a lunch of:

• an egg cooked in a microwave
• grape-flavored popcorn {Why is that even made? Why is it in my office? It's basically popcorn covered in grape Kool-aid powder, no joke.}
• or the Market Bowl
  

Technically, no, those weren't my only options. I suppose at Boston Market, I could've gotten a chicken pot pie, but as soon as I pulled in to the parking lot and saw the big sign for "Eat Anytime, Anywhere," I thought, in a mangled, Liz Lemon way: I want to eat to there.

And now I have; I have had a Market Bowl, and I am here to say: It is a good idea. It is comfort all mixed together, and it's like 75,000% better than grape popcorn.

Also, I'm most definitely going to the grocery store on the way home. Please hold me accountable to this/to not eating another Market Bowl tomorrow. Thanks.

* I should point out that I have, in fact, eaten a KFC Bowl. Okay, more than one. Maybe like five. Also, I tried the KFC Double Down—the sandwich where the bread is replaced with fried chicken and there's bacon in the middle. Here ends my bad-for-you-food disclosures. Unless you want to hear about my love of hot dogs.

Oh, who am I kidding? We all knew I'd eventually try this Market Bowl. It was made for me, in the way that peanut butter was made for chocolate {and if the peanut butter-chocolate mix was then deep-fat fried, then it was really made for me}.

so much in common with dick clark

At a diner in Montclair, New Jersey—well, not exactly a diner, exactly.

There was a counter, yes, and some booths, but the whole thing was more upscale than "diner" generally implies.

This was not a silver Airstream-looking establishment along the side of a highway.

The mugs were not thick-handled, and the coffee was not burnt.

No neon signs flashing remnants of Americana: Eat at Joe's.

It was a fancy diner; let's say that. They make their own gigantic marshmallows, for Pete's sake, which encapsulates this place pretty well: it's comfort food but in a way that makes you step back in surprise. And then dig in with a hunger you didn't know you had.

So at this diner, above the counter, there was a sign with a quote from Dick Clark:
My greatest asset in life was I never lost touch with hot dogs, hamburgers, going to the fair, and hanging out at the mall.

I realized, looking up at that quote, that I have a lot in common with Dick Clark, and that came as a surprise to me. He's a piece of Americana, crucial to a certain generation's childhood and then revered for years afterwards as the representative of that gentler, before-the-world-got-so-gosh-darn-fast-paced time.

And I'm just a girl who doesn't like New Year's Eve, and Dick Clark was famous for loving it. {Although he did make it cool to stay in on New Year's Eve, so maybe I owe him one.}

In that quote, though, Dick Clark hit on several of my loves.

Hot dogs: One of the tags on my blog is "hot dogs," which means that I've written about them more than once; they get their own category! I stop at a certain gas station on the way home to Iowa every time—just to get a hot dog. I'm going home next Friday, by the way, and I will be at that gas station.

The fair: My town's fair is this weekend, and no matter how old I get, I can't resist wandering by to see the lights. I love it so much I wrote a poem about it last year.

And I hope I never lose touch with those things. Conveniently enough, they often come together: you can get a hot dog or a hamburger at the fair. Or at the mall, for that matter, although that is one place I'd be fine losing touch with. Who needs to be inside when there are hot dogs and a carnival outside?

a confession and a salad

I have a confession: last week, I ate like an American. The stereotypical American, I should say.

I had just come home from a business trip to St. Louis, and as I do before many trips, I had eaten myself out of house and home, a phrase that always makes me think I should be eating drywall and brick.

Of course it just means that I ate all the perishable things: all the bananas, pears, kale, mushrooms, milk, cream, cheese, bread.

I left myself with many hardy staples: pasta, frozen chicken breasts, canned beans, frozen vegetables, and even frozen servings of this sausage and kale soup I had made when the weather was still chilly and gray.

So there was food, but it was the kind of food you have to think about. What could I eat with the pasta so that it wasn't just bland pasta? Did I want to eat the beans? Maybe rice and beans? Why did sausage and kale sound so good in March but not so good in May? What sounds good now? What do you do when nothing sounds good?

So much thinking, and there was little leftover space in my brain for thinking.

And there was little time for cooking wholesome meals. My office was in the middle of moving, so I was spending my days surrounded by packing crates and making sure I didn't misplace something very, very important, such as the permissions to publish documentation for every article ever written for our websites.

Little time for thinking.
Little time for cooking.
And the real nutrition killer: little time for grocery shopping.

All this littleness leads to my confession: last week, I ate like a stereotypical American. I ate a lot of fast food.

A Short List of Everything I Ate that Maybe I Shouldn't Have

• gas station hot dog
• giant slice of pizza from this little place on my drive home from work. You get a piece of pizza as big as three of my heads and a liter of pop—for $5.
  
  Plus, there's the added bonus of getting to feel slightly like Alice in Wonderland after she shrinks down to very tiny: everything in her world is too big.
• BLT from Jimmy John's, except I'm not a fan of T on sandwiches. Tomatoes make the bread mushy, and I don't mind telling you that it's only a recent discovery that it's not that I dislike tomatoes in general; I really only dislike them on sandwiches. Until not so long ago, I bypassed most tomatoes {even when I lived in southern France}, which is sad, and I plan on making up for it this summer.
  
  So my BLT from Jimmy John's was more of a BLA—I had them put on avocado. And add extra bacon and onions, so I was really eating EBOLA. Nice.
• pizza {yes, MORE pizza} from the Pizza Hut Express in Target. My new office is just around the corner from Target, and it may take a lot of will power to not wander its enticing aisles every day at lunch saying, "$5 movies! How can I pass up Practical Magic when it's only $5? That's just the cost of a giant pizza slice!"
• KFC chicken strips, mashed potatoes, and baked beans. KFC is, to me, a comfort food, so please don't ruin it for me by telling me about how their chicken isn't really chicken. Sometimes, we all need a guilty pleasure, don't we?

With a list like that, it's no wonder that when I finally made it to the grocery store, all I wanted to buy was vegetables.

By last Saturday evening, my brain and schedule had cleared enough to where I was finally able to think about putting food together in a healthy, orderly fashion, not this haphazard eating of things that may or may not be chicken.

We all know not to go to the grocery store when you're hungry. I would like to add a rule:
Do not go to the grocery store when all you've eaten for the past week has come to you in a sandwich wrapper, cardboard box, or served with a spork.

If possible, find a way to get someone to invite you over for a homemade meal, preferably one involving a salad, so that your body can remember that it can, in fact, get nutrients from food.

If you don't do this, then when you're wandering the aisles of the store, some primal instinct in you will force you to put every vegetable and fruit possible in your cart.

It will be an attempt to stockpile freshness, as if your body believes there has been a vegetable apocalypse and you will be forced to eat trans fats forever and ever. Humankind will survive on giant pizza and fried chicken. It will not be pretty, so get the veggies now.

This is what happened to me: when I was at home putting my groceries away, I realized I had enough fruits and vegetables to feed a family of four for two weeks.

I'm telling you, you could make an excellent and large cornucopia display for Thanksgiving using what I bought.

However, it's not Thanksgiving and I'm not a family of four so much as one girl who lives alone with a pug, and she would be little help when it came to the fennel and other things that might rot before I get around to eating them.

So I did the next best thing to forcing my pug to eat fennel: I invited a lovely vegetarian over for dinner and made, among other things that involved many vegetables, this salad below.

As we giggled after dinner while drinking sherry {this is what sherry does to you, by the way: it makes you giggle, even though it used to be the post-dinner drink of refined ladies, which I, apparently, am not}, I was walloped with thankfulness for three things:;

• for weeks when I don't eat well: Giving in to guilty pleasures makes the return to eating well taste that much better.
• for giant pizza: It's so good that I thought of it even while eating asparagus.
  
• for a good friend who will eat giant pizza with me and help me eat my cornucopia of vegetables: She's the kind of friend who understands that sometimes, there's little time for thinking, cooking, or shopping—and so sometimes, my hospitality looks like inviting her over and then serving her pizza or take-out Thai or grilled cheese. But she's the kind of comfortable friend everyone should have—the kind you can eat pizza with in your sweatpants and not have to worry about trying too hard.
  
  Then later when you have an overflow of vegetables and are overflowing with ideas of what to do with them, she's just the kind of friend who takes her first bite of asparagus and carrot salad, closes her eyes, and sighs in pleasure at the deliciousness of it. She's just the kind of friend you want to cook for and have at your table as often as possible.

Asparagus and Carrot Ribbon Salad

Serves 4

What You Need

• 1 pound fresh asparagus {thick stalks if you can get them}
• 2 large carrots
• lots of kale
• half an onion, diced
• 1 red pepper, diced
• anything else you find in your fridge that you think might taste good in here
• grated Parmesan cheese
• salt and pepper to taste

For the Vinaigrette

• 1/2 tablespoon sugar
• 1 tablespoon red wine vinegar
• 2 tablespoons olive oil
• 1 large clove garlic, minced
• 1/4 teaspoon crushed red chile pepper

What You Do

1. Lay a stalk of asparagus on a cutting board. Starting at one end, use a vegetable peeler to peel off long ribbons of asparagus. Continue until all the stalks have been “ribboned.” This is actually a rather entertaining way to go about making asparagus.
2. Ribbon the carrots, too. If the ribbons are quite long, you can cut them in half to make eating easier, and if you're like me and get nervous about peeling your finger—and therefore assiduously avoid the end of the asparagus/carrot—you can chop that up at the end, too, to make eating easier.
3. Add all the vegetables together, make the vinaigrette, and drizzle the dressing over the salad and toss gently. Some freshly grated Parmesan cheese is a good idea at this point.
4. Invite over a vegetarian and share.

do you actually understand baseball?

Tonight, I'm headed to a Cubs game, my once-yearly sojourn to Wrigley Field for a hot dog and the ability to throw my peanut shells on the ground.

I suppose I could do that at home, but then I would have to clean it up and that, as much as I like cleaning, limits the fun factor.

Peanut shells also make me think of pre-school: we had peanuts for a snack one day at Small World Pre-school {our fight song, if pre-schools can be said to have fight songs, was that song from the Disney ride}, and I ate the shells.

I liked the salt and the crunchiness. I even liked the little stringy pieces of shell getting stuck between my baby teeth.

Also, I didn't know you weren't supposed to eat the shells; my parents and I hadn't covered that lesson yet.

The teacher came over slightly alarmed that I did not have a growing little pile of shells, just like the other children. When I heard the tsk-tsk in her voice, I realized that one of these kids was doing her own thing and that one kid was me.

Ever the quick thinker, even as a 3-year-old, I told her that I'd already thrown them away.

The only way this would've been possible is if I were magical—had invisible powers or speed of light powers. That is the only way I could've made it past her watchful eye to the trash can, but I think she preferred the idea that I'd magically made it to the trash can {all in the name of cleanliness}—to the alternative truth that I'd just crammed in a bunch of salt and fiber.

You can see, then, why I get so excited about throwing peanut shells. It's as if I'm announcing to the world, "I learned in pre-school what to do with these things! NOT EAT THEM! Or maybe just eat one, just because you love salt that much, but make sure nobody sees you!"

At the Cubs game tonight, I admit, I'll probably be more excited about the food than the pitching. But just because I rarely talk about baseball—or watch it on TV or listen to it on the radio—my boss misinterpreted my "sportiness."

Today he asked, with a bit of hesitation, "So, will you even understand what's happening at the game tonight?"

The whole office laughed in shock.

I laughed so hard, I cried, which I think made the boss feel worse. He made me cry!

To give him the benefit of the doubt, he is English. Baseball is foreign to them, just as cricket is foreign/crazy/confusing/what's a sticky wicket to us.

But as I reminded him, I was born in America, and we're born with this basic knowledge of what to do when faced with a ball, a bat, and a diamond-shaped field.

You start taunting the pitcher, clearly.

Or you order a hot dog by yelling at the man carrying around a hot dog container made for such a time as this—big and hanging around his neck.

Or you get some more peanuts to throw on the ground.

And then you clap when your team gets a man on base. You stand up when he gets home. You stretch in the seventh inning.

Everyone knows this.

And now, if you'll excuse me, I have a team to cheer for.

you know who you sound like?

I hate Anne Lamott.

Not really.

But isn't that a dramatic beginning?

Here's the non-drama truth: People often tell me that my writing reminds them of someone else's writing.

“Oh, do you know who you sound like? Anne Lamott. She had the funniest story...well, yours is funny, too. You're both so sharp about your faith.”

And that's why I hate her.

I also get: “You're just like David Sedaris, only maybe less bitter and without the slightly frightening ability to impersonate Billie Holiday.”

I take these comments as compliments because I'm sure the people saying them mean them as compliments. Besides, if you have to be compared to someone, Anne Lamott is pretty good company.

I also choose to take these as compliments because if I don't I will scream. And maybe cry, although I'm not known for that. I will cry and scream and wail and generally gnash my teeth because when I read writing that sounds like my own—but better and published—the inevitable question comes up: so who cares about what I have to say?

That's an unfair question, mostly because it's based on comparison, which, if you ask me, is the root of all evil. {Adam and Eve wanted something God had, so I may be on to something there.}

Comparison never gets you anywhere but frustrated. I tried to remember that when I showed my mother the piece I had written on her tattoo, and she said, “Oh, I read the most hilarious book called Why Is My Mother Getting a Tattoo? And Other Questions I Wish I Never Had to Ask. That's just like your story!”

Yes. Just like my story but with a snappy title that encapsulates everything I ever wanted to say about my mother's tattoo, and in fact my working title for my story was "A Question I Shouldn't Have to Ask."

I decided to face my nemesis, Jancee Dunn, this woman who had stolen my writing and my specialness {if I can't be known as the straight-laced girl who over-reacted to her mother's tattoo, what can I be known as?}, head-on: I checked out her book from the library. And I laughed my way through it, but also grew in my hate for Jancee. Her stories all sounded so...familiar.

She wrote about parents who send newspaper clippings with short notes attached; I've written about that, too. {Twice, actually! Once in relation to my mama's new iPad and once just yesterday when I talked about some of the articles I've gotten from my mama.}

She talked about her parents moving out of their home—the one she was raised in—and how she fought that; I've been mulling over a story on the same theme. {Not that my parents have left my childhood home, but the threat of it a few years ago, along with the promise that they're retiring to Canada, was enough to upset me.}

She talked about an obsession with bad-for-you-food; I'm known for my obsession with hot dogs.

Basically, I love Jancee because she's familiar, but I hate her because I can hold her book in my hands. But I did realize that Jancee's writing could be a good role model for me.

Reading good writing makes it easier to write good writing {that isn't a very good sentence, but you get the idea}.

And whether you want to write poetry or a novel or a memoir, you should be immersed in good writing from that genre. It'll teach you, both subtly and overtly, what works well and what you want to avoid.

Coming tomorrow: What I Learned from Envy. Or Jancee.

{You can jump ahead to part 2 here.}

confessions of a hot dog lover

Surprisingly—or perhaps not surprisingly if you know me well—I have some more thoughts on hot dogs.  More specifically, I have a brief snapshot of hot dog love to share with you.

Picture it:  St. Louis, June 12, 2010.

No, let me back up.

Picture it:  a gas station on Roosevelt in Wheaton before I hit the road to St.  Louis.  I had a wedding to go to, and I was leaving just before lunchtime.  That morning, I'd run a 5k in my best time ever so I fully deserved a gas station hot dog.

My self-reward system is unique, I know.  I switch between rewarding myself with bad-for-me food and high-end cookware.  The next time I get a raise, I'm going for Le Creuset.  Or a funnel cake, haven't decided which yet.

I was about to buy my hot dog when the guy at the gas station tried to use his wiley salesman skills by saying, “Oh but miss, the hot dogs are 2 for $2.00.  Are you sure you don’t want another one?”

I will not tell you how seriously I debated this.

Then later, around dinner time in St. Louis, I was driving from the wedding ceremony to the reception—a dessert-only reception.  {Chocolate fountain.  I think that’s all I need to say on that topic.}

The QT gas station sign was what did it:  they were having a 2 for $2.00 deal, too.  I’d let that opportunity pass me by once already, and I am nothing if not committed to a good deal and processed meats.

Now picture it:  I’m in a dress from White House Black Market—a dress that should’ve cost $170.00, but I got it on sale for $40.00.  This dress makes me feel a lot like Laura Petrie from The Dick van Dyke Show and a little bit like Grace Kelly as a brunette.

Classy.

And I’m having a one-girl hot dog eating contest.

Shoving it in—no time to chew.  I have a chocolate fountain and eight kinds of cupcakes waiting for me across town.  This is no time to worry about chewing.

I am careful, though.  Those hot dogs are dripping with ketchup and mayonnaise, and I even used some of those chopped onion packets.

{Note to self:  never use those again.  I may be able to put up with fake meat, but I can’t stand overly processed onions.}

One drop of ketchup and there goes my Laura/Grace feeling and I’m back to being a girl on a road trip, justifying her third hot dog of the day.

Classic.

concerning the hot dog

On the road, I am the great justifier of junk food.  Most of us are:  this is why gas stations do not have salad bars and why the shrink-wrapped chicken salad sandwiches stay in the refrigerated case while Ding Dongs, Bugles, cheesy popcorn {it stains your car seats, you know, and it’s so pervasive—months later, you find orange dust in the trunk}, and Skittles must be re-stocked every 3 hours.

I am a particular justifier of the gas station hot dog.  To me, a hot dog is the ultimate road food: it’s self-contained, can be eaten quickly, and it doesn’t cost much.

Gas station hot dogs are usually about $1.00, the perfect price point for a cheap-o-focused person like me.  But let’s face it, when you think about what goes into a hot dog, $1.00 is an exorbitant price.

I know what’s in hot dogs.  Mr. Desi, my seventh grade science teacher, took it upon himself to explain hot dogs in exquisite detail to my class, which was partly made up of relatives and descendants of pig farmers.  And even if someone doesn’t have swine production in their family history, every Iowa kid can tell the difference between the smell of a hog confinement and the smell of say, just cows.

{This skill does not translate well to big city life, sadly.}

I don’t know why Mr. Desi chose to explain hot dogs to us—perhaps we were overly distracted one day by the hot lunch main dish, a foot-long hot dog.  Or maybe he was trying to toughen our stomachs for pig dissection in ninth grade.

Snouts, intestines, organs, anything else that fell in the vat while mushing up the hot dog mix:  I suggest we start thinking of hot dogs as America’s answer to haggis.  Or to paté.  Or to anything served in a British pub.

People in other countries eat equally questionable food, so America should put hot dogs in their proper cultural context.  And we should not be ashamed to eat them, wherever we may find them.  In gas stations.  At a street vendor on Broadway in NYC.  At Wrigley Field.  At a Fourth of July cook out.

{I’m starting to feel overly-patriotic, as if I should be humming “The Battle Hymn of the Republic” while writing this manifesto on the very American-ness of the hot dog.  I’m going to stop before I start reciting the Pledge of Allegiance.}

I do my part in honoring America, nostalgia, the food industry, and the classic road trip.  Like I said, I eat a lot of gas station hot dogs, and I'm proud of it.

One nation, under God, indivisible...