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Like the Back of My Hand

November 24, 2008

Yellowed and curled, the photo no longer held the magic that made me stick it up months ago. And so, I removed it from my fridge door, revealing a bossy command:

Come on! Let’s go get weiners!

It’s my handwriting; yet, I don’t remember writing it. Also, I know better than to misspell a simple word like “wieners”. Weiner is a town in Arizona; wiener is something one might eat. There’s more: I don’t think wieners are tasty, and would never organise a special trip to fetch some.

I canvassed a few friends, those most likely present when I shouted for wieners. R. gave it a fifty-fifty chance. “But please,” she urged, “if you figure out I was there, let me know!” H. confessed that, although she once spray-painted gold monkeys on her fence after too much bourbon, she’s never been drunk enough to crave a frankfurter. J. laughed and laughed, repeating “ha ha wieners!” each time she recovered, setting off another round of giggles. D. shrugged: if he was there, he’d probably just carried on pouring martinis.

This false enthusiasm for hotdogs is creepy, but most of all, it’s disturbing to forget something done by my own hand.

4 Comments leave one →
  1. looka permalink
    November 25, 2008 4:45 am

    I have a false enhutasmism too!

    But I can’t outrun the weinie-Wieners. They live everywhere around me!

  2. Amanda permalink
    November 25, 2008 9:56 am

    Surrounded by wieners?! Terrifying! Whatever you do, be sure to avoid making eye-contact.

  3. looka permalink
    November 25, 2008 3:11 pm

    Never. They take it as a personal offense.


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