Just as Monday have been deemed “Fear Factor” night, the other night was what we call “Survivor” night in my household. My kid has taken a liking to these shows and even though I’m not a really big fan of reality television, these shows seem rather tame in comparison to some of the other junk that serves as entertainment. After getting home from school and running the usual errands and whatnot, she asked if it was ok to play outside. Of course I said yes and off she went. After about an hour or so of jumping rope and playing hopscotch with the neighborhood kids, the time came for me to make dinner.

For the most part, I’m sure the vast majority of us have either boiled some hot dogs on their own or at the very least, seen somebody else doing it. For those of us who don’t care all that much about we ingest, it’s a cheap, quick dinner. The aroma that they leave behind kind of lingers in the kitchen and if you use enough condiments you can usually hide, or at least mask, the taste. The water that they boil in though seems to retain a fatty film that really doesn’t congeal like the rest of fats. It seems to form orange like bubbles that float on the surface and stare back you. Nothing like those images and smells of Ball Park Franks (hey, they plump when you cook ‘em!) to get the evening off to a roaring start.

But first…

I was in sort of a funky mood the other night. It was one of those kinds where you can’t put your finger on what’s bothering you but it’s clear to anybody around you that something is wrong. I figured a couple beers and some tunes might be just what the doctor ordered to shake me out of my malaise. It was actually starting to work. I felt a little bit inspired and started looking forward to the next day and any adventures that might be in store.

Eight O’ clock rolled around too fast. Borgette asked if she could put on “Survivor”. Being the fine, kind, understanding, patient, all around good guy that I am, I said yes and it wasn’t long before the music was shut off and my attention began to wander. Not to Survivor though…

I thought about a nice evening out. Of getting dressed up and actually trying to make an impression on somebody. Of fine dining with a wonderful woman over candlelight in a nice restaurant, Of nice conversations over shrimp cocktails, rare steaks, and fine scotch. Of the soft tinkling of the piano as it plays some unnamed jazz tune in the back round. Of rich desserts and Irish coffee. Of uttering the words “You look beautiful” over and over throughout the evening. Of late night whispers and promises. Of getting home and making love and falling asleep without nary a thought as to when I needed to get up again.

My thoughts are interrupted as my kid starts asking me what I thought about the show. Who would get voted off, what tribe did what to who, who did I think was going to win?.

I answer blandly at best. I start to wander around the house picking up various pieces of fuzz or scraps of paper left behind by the cat or the kid. I put my kid to bed, we go through our bedtime ritual. I wander into the kitchen and am greeted by the sight of dirty dishes and a pot full of hot dog water. I turn and walk out, it can wait for the morning, or until I get home from work the next day.

I make my way to the other room. I glance over at the pots where we planted the seeds the other day, I hope to see a sprout.