On Sharing Your Hot Dog

There are moments in life, when you wish the earth would open up and swallow you. I have many of them. But I have come to terms with the fact that this will be common place in my world. I am just one of those people that weird shit happens to. Who am I kidding, I am the common denominator. I am the frequent facilitator of my own weird interactions. Sometimes I wonder if I was put on this earth for the sole purpose of entertaining my girlfriends over Friday drinks.
Whilst dancing around like a boozy fairy at Aerosmith, I had yet another one of these moments. I was in one of those moods where I was letting the music control my body. Steven Tyler was streaking across the stage in velvety bum-huggers; silk scarves swaying from his microphone. And I… had been drinking whiskey, which ends in embarrassment 9.76 times out of 10.
Suddenly, through the crowd, came a Maori George Clooney. But, best of all, I had never seen anyone dance like it. He had his head back, eyes closed, and appeared to be doing some kind of on-the-spot marching mixed with occasional gyrating. I was intrigued and seriously impressed. I’m a sucker for a man who can unabashedly let loose on the dance floor.
We engaged in some form of a mating ritual. Some shimmies and the occasional shoulder bump. During the exchange, a member of my group placed a hot dog in my hand, you know the deep-fried wonders, dipped in sugary, tomatoey tastiness. The kind of treat that is only appetising when inebriated or at an A&P show after a whirl on the chairoplane.
The music slowed and we awkwardly stood together, not really knowing what to say.  I racked my brain for something cool/mysterious. But I had nada. Before I knew what I was doing, and as if it was the most natural thing in the world, I outstretched my arm and offered my new dance partner some of my hot dog. Waved it in his face, like that was the most logical plan when faced with a good-looking man. If the act itself wasn't uncool enough, I had eaten all of the good saucy bit and left the overcooked nubbin on the end.
I offered Maori George Clooney a sausage nubbin!! Good grief.
I cringe even as I write this. Sometimes I would love to get inside my own head. Was I dropped as a child. Did Mum carry on with the gin well into the third trimester. There must be a genetic link, or some physiological brain abnormality that makes me do such strange, socially inappropriate things when under pressure!
After turning around, to see if I must have been waving my hotdog at someone else, he smiled politely and declined. Heavens knows why. Who could resist such an offering. As the concert was drawing to a close, I made an excuse about finding my friends and abandoned MGC. Never to be seen again. Well…as Dunedin is the size of a postage stamp, possibly to be seen again…at some point. They say first impressions last, so I will forever be that strange girl in a red pleather mini skirt, that smelt a bit like whiskey and offered up her bar snack instead of any form of normal conversation.
But the whole thing got me thinking. Maybe a hotdog is the key to all of this. One day, I will meet a boy, and I will drop my cool, and be the girl who offers him the scungy end of my nibbled hot dog, in the place of perfect words. This boy will reply ‘oh! I love the crispy bit at the end, it’s my favourite!’ It will be like one of those moments on the movies. Harps and soft focus. Maybe it is through such acts that I will find my weird and inappropriate match. Food for thought. Literally.
In the meantime, I have a feeling my life of singledom, and all the adventures that accompany it, are going to keep my friends entertained for a while longer yet…
(Maori George Clooney if you are reading this…call me.)  
XX
Words by Katie Appleyard