The Weenie Wife

Years ago, I was pushing my nephew, Jeff, through a grocery store.  He was, oh, maybe three years old.  He was sitting in the cart, grinning up at me, saying, "Sing the weenie song!"  So sing it, I did.  "Again!" he cried, giggling.  So I sang it again.  He didn't know it at the time, but he pretty much had me wrapped around his chubby little finger.  (His little brother, Cliff would do the same.)

Now, many years have passed, and I still find that song will occasionally just pop into my head.  Once it's there, you're kind of stuck with it for a while, till some other earworm comes along to usurp its place.  I have sung that song to my own children, and will probably sing it to their children.  (There's a lot to be said for family legacies, you know.)

Anyway, when that song weasels its way into my brain, I always grin.  I have, in fact, found my weenie man.  Oh, he doesn't actually own a hot dog stand; he's a catastrophe adjuster.  But he is my other half, my soulmate.  He is the hot dog to my bun, the mustard to my onion...dare I say, the tater to my tot?

I love my weenie man dearly, along with our two little weenies -- although, in truth, the oldest "little weenie" is more of a jumbo dog, at 6' 5".  And the younger one is more of a "bun length", as she will soon be taller than I am!

So that's us.  Four weenies in a pack, and we have a great time.  Hopefully, my adventures and foibles will provide a laugh or two for someone out there on the web.