Real Men Bring Cupcakes

My friend Stephen is a god.

I decided this on Sunday afternoon when he brought me a large, triple chocolate cupcake from Whole Foods. After all, the scientific term for the Cocoa Tree is "Theobrama Cacao"... which is the Greek term for "Food for the Gods."

I can only deduce that if the food is meant FOR the gods, it must come FROM a god. Therefore... Stephen = a god.

That is the way my logic works. And I like it.

I enjoyed that Triple Chocolate deliciousness for two days. That s*** was amazing.

In other news, I stumbled across this website today that made me absolutely pee myself. (Not in public, though, because we all know how I feel about public urination.)

The site is called "Postcards from Yo Momma". Let me give you the scoop: people go to this site and post bits of chats or emails from their mothers. Some are semi-funny. Some are roll-on-the-floor-and-snort-embarrassingly funny.

http://www.postcardsfromyomomma.com/

So, here is your homework assignment for the day.

1. Go there.
2. Think of what your mother would say. And trust me, you'll want to click back to read previous entries. Some of the best ones ever are a couple pages in.
3. Come back here and tell me your own stories.

Deal?

There Are No Hot Dogs in Chapel Hill

It all started with a voicemail: "Hey PerLins! Your sister and I are going to dock the boat over at Humphrey's Ridge for some lunch. She has a craving for a hot dog."

That was all it took. I had to have one. And this was no small feat for a gal who dabbled in vegetarianism during her pre-teen years and still refuses to eat pork of any description because of a horror story recounted circa 1993 by her middle school phys-ed teacher. (Did you know that if you pour alcohol on a slice of raw ham in the sink, worms will crawl out? Cross my heart.)

I think my last act of hot dog consumption took place roughly a decade ago. But even that memory is hazy, and there's no way to be sure.

In the midst of running Saturday-afternoon-big-girl errands, I found myself on a mission. Lowe's Hardware would have to wait.

So I pulled out my portable GPS (God bless Tom Tom), and started typing furiously.

"Hot dog." "Chapel Hill, NC."
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Nothing.

Ok, I had to regroup.

"Bar-b-que." "Chapel Hill, NC."
BINGO! Less than 5 miles away, there was this place called Jim's. Or Jimbo's. Or John's. Whatever. If they had BBQ, I knew they must have hot dogs. And surely, if they did not, they would know who did. My plan, I thought, was fool proof.

So I pulled up to Jimbo's... Jay's... Jarvis's... and walked in with an abnormally large smile on my face. As soon as I walked in the door, I spotted Nate, a mid-30-something, slightly overweight in that Puilsbury Doughboy kinda way, waiter wearing a bright red apron with sauce stains smeared across the front. Nate looked like a man who knew a good hot dog when he saw one.

"Nate!" I cried, "I'm lookin' for a hot dog! Can you help me?"

Rather than reply "Why yes, little girl, I have the perfect hot dog right here just waiting for you!" (which is what I really, really wanted Nate to say)... Nate wordlessly stared at my chest.

"Excuse me. Nate?"

"Uhhhh, yeah. ???"

"Hot dogs? Do you have 'em?"

"No, but I think Food Lion does."

"Well, you see, Nate. This does not help me. Because today, I'm an instant gratification kind-of gal, and I really just want one, already cooked hot dog with slaw. Any idea where I can get one of those?"

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"Uhhhhh. Nope. Sorry." (But let me stare below your neckline the entire time I'm talking to you, and hope that you won't notice.)

"Well, thanks for all your help, Nate."

Nate sucked.

I exited Jasper's with a slightly smaller grin than when I walked in. But I was determined not to be thrown off the path. Not by Nate, and not by Nate's inappropriately fixed gaze.

So I got back into my car and started making calls. Surely, someone must know a good hot dog spot.

But oh no. No. No one knows where I can find a good hot dog in Chapel Hill. But they are all very sorry for my plight.

Finally, I turned once again to Tom Tom. "Bar-b-que." "Anywhere near me."

BAM! Allen and Sons. Fifteen minutes away. And most definitely not in Chapel Hill.

So I sat there for a few moments. I asked myself, "Self, are you willing to drive 30 minutes for a hot dog? One hot dog? With a gas station sign staring you in the face taunting a mighty $4.06 per gallon?"

The answer was a resounding... YES.

I took off for Allen and Sons, and found myself in the middle of nowhere. I road behind a John Deere on the highway for about 8 miles to get there (thereby increasing my travel time, but that's another topic for another day).

Sweet, sweet meat products. There, Allen... or his Son... gave me the best hot dog I have ever put in my mouth. With coleslaw. And sweet tea. And a side of hush puppies. Because, dammit, I drove 45 minutes and spent about an hour of my time to make this happen.

I write this for you, weary traveler, to let you know... just in case you are wondering... there are no hot dogs in Chapel Hill. But you can always count on Allen. Or his son.