Hotdog Karma

If you're feeling a little queasy, this is not the post for you. I am about to share a disturbing issue in my life, so consider this your warning.

If you know me at all, you know that I hate hotdogs. Not just in concept (but think about it - how can you not?) but completely. hate. hotdogs.

Let me give you a little background that cemented this hatred for me. I was, about, 16 or so when I accepted a babysitting job for a family that shall remain nameless. The parents provided me with a package of cheese-filled hotdogs for their three kids' dinner. Eww. I think that was my exact thought. There was really no other food in the house, so hotdogs it was. I decided I wasn't hungry myself.

After dinner, I tucked the kids into bed, only to be startled a short time later by the sound of vomiting coming from the little girl's room. That was definitely not something I'd signed on for with the job, but I could understand the feeling after a dinner like that. I went into the room to discover partially digested, vomited up hotdogs EVERYWHERE. It was horrible. I don't know if I felt worse for the little girl or for myself. This obviously left quite an impression on me, as I can play it like a film reel in my head to this day. I called my Mom (thanks, Mom!), who instructed me in the ways of cleaning up such messes. I got the little girl cleaned up and settled on the towel-coated couch, then moved on to the bed. I shook the comforter over the toilet, and soaked it in the bathtub. I shook out the sheets and pajamas, and cleaned up the floors. Then I went in search of the laundry room, which I discovered in a dark corner of the unfinished basement. I washed and dried the filthy bedding and jammies, feeling sicker and sicker as I went along. When the parents, blessedly, returned home (no cell phones back then folks, I was STUCK), all the mother did was yell at me for going into her laundry room because she considered it a mess. "Pardon me for going out of my way to clean up your daughter's hotdog puke!" I don't think I said it out loud. Needless to say, I was always busy whenever they called again.

So, the point of that story is background for my current aversion to the infamous hotdog. We never, I repeat NEVER, have hotdogs at my house. Hang in there, because now I have to explain why I think I must have a karmic problem with the hotdog. Did I kill someone with a hotdog in a previous life? Did I so malign the "food" in my past that I am to be eternally punished by the pervasive hotdog aura now?

A couple of weeks ago, I let Katie lie down in my TemperPedic bed for a nap because she wasn't feeling well and something about "Mommy's Bed" seems to take the sting out of many an ailment. About an hour later I heard a sudden and desparate sobbing and ran upstairs to discover that Katie (to whom Franz had fed a *gasp* hotdog earlier in the day) had thrown up all over my bed.

Instant flashback. And oh my heavens, MY BED! I put Katie into the shower fully clothed and got to work on my bed. Do you know how hard it is to shake out king sized sheets? I ended up with a couple of loads of laundry out of the whole thing and had to wash each twice to get the smell and the chunks out of them. I was picking pieces of hotdogs up off the laundry room floor and out of Katie's hair. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of dealing with hotdogs, everything and everyone was clean.

I came downstairs, feeling nauseous myself, breathing deeply of the fresh downstairs air. Immediately as I walked into the family room, a hotdog commercial came on TV, mocking my iron will to control my own stomach. I think it was actually a commercial for a grill, but all I know is that it was showing hotdogs as big as my arms. In an effort not to be ill on the spot, I turned toward the desk in the kitchen, picking up a stray piece of paper and trying to tidy up to force my mind to focus elsewhere. Looking absently down at the paper in my hand, I realized it was a coupon for a package of hotdogs. SERIOUSLY. That was almost the last straw for me. Somehow I was able to drop the paper and stumble away, barely keeping my composure. Why me? How can this not be some karmic hotdog message?

Hotdog, wherever you are, I'm sorry for hating you so! Please, please forgive me and let me live in peace!