Did you know that the song, “Build Me Up, Buttercup” always puts me in a good mood?

It doesn’t matter that my allergies have practically crudded my contact lenses to my eyelids and my husband’s in Afghanistan and the dogs have been waking me up at 5:30 every morning so they can drag me 2 miles around the neighborhood.

Ultimately, it’s The Foundations — not the sunrise over the lake or the smell of my morning coffee or any amount of caffeine — who put the spring back in my step.

Which only further proves that I was born in the wrong generation.

Technology makes me nervous, and I’m pretty sure that a poppy-seed from my bagel just got stuck inside my keyboard.

That wouldn’t have happened with a typewriter.

Of course, then this whole blog thing wouldn’t be happening either, and I’d probably be haphazardly wandering the streets of Fayetteville talking to anyone who will listen about the merits of Poo-Pourri while shoving photos of family vacations in their faces.

But instead, I get to shove them in your faces, which is much more gratifying.

So.

After our first day in Colorado was spent guzzling free alcoholic beverages at the Coors brewery, we decided we needed some culture in our lives.  My mother, her boyfriend Ed, Justin and I hopped on a train that speedily dropped us in the heart of downtown Denver.

(Can I just say for a second how much I love public transportation?  Seriously.  My dream is to live in a city with clean, efficient public transportation — where I can jet from one place to the next without worrying where to park my car, how much it’s going to cost, or whether I might lose the drag race I just accepted with a 60-year-old man.  True story.

I won.)

 Just one of many modes of Denver mass transit.

Anyway.

Our first stop in the Mile High city was for food.

You know my priorities.

Justin, always the advocate for anything highlighted on the Food or Travel networks, opted for Biker Jim’s Gourmet Dogs.  We were searching for their street cart at the specified location, but ended up walking several city blocks to the actual restaurant when we learned it was an off-day for the food cart.  Turns out this was a wise decision, since I’m pretty sure they don’t sell beer from the food cart.

But I’ve been wrong before.

The decor is minimal and industrial, but their main food is hot dogs.  What do you expect?

An interesting juxtaposition of good ol’ “Amurcan” cuisine, gourmet ingredients, and several oddities you’d be more likely to find dead on the side of the road than in Manhattan’s finest establishments make up the simple menu.

Tip:  The larger the selection of food on a restaurant’s menu, the crappier it will likely be.  Smaller, more selective menus are generally where you’ll find the best food.

I ordered the Weiner Wellington — an insanely delicious rib eye steak brat with mushroom duxelle and grainy Dijon cream wrapped in puff pastry and drizzled with Bordelaise.  I don’t know what most of that is, but I do know this: It tasted like heaven wrapped in fluffy clouds dipped in gravy.

For $8.50, this is not the most I’ve spent on a dog, believe it or not.  Nor is this the widest selection of toppings I’ve seen.  But it was, my friends, the tastiest.

Take one.

Take two.

Take… *burp*

Now.  I honestly can’t remember what Justin and Ed ordered.  It may have been the southwest buffalo.  It may have been the Wild Boar.  Maybe the smoked bacon Bat Dog, with avocado puree, tomato cream cheese, caramelized onion, and bacon bits.  And I know the idea of the rattlesnake and pheasant dogs were at least discussed.

But I do know they were delicious.

Pretty sure this is the Bat Dog.

And… um… boar, maybe?

But they weren’t quite as good as mine.

It was the puff pastry that sealed the deal.

If this is Denver, consider me a fan.