On Friday evening, I attended a party at my boss’ house. Now, I am not sure at what level of uncomfortabless that should lie, but for me, it was about a six. Having walked the two miles to his home through the steamy vapors of a D.C. summer night, I arrived covered in a sheen of sweat, kept at bay only by the linen of my blouse and spurts of Chanel I had previously sprayed. My boss answered the door, and luckily that was the last I saw of him, as he was busy playing Julie the Cruise Director. For the next hour, I drank some beers, chatted with the few people there I knew, began wheezing as a result of the family dog, and answered my boss’ colleagues’ work related questions, which is always fun to do during social occasions. I eventually locked myself in the bathroom and called some friends to meet up. I then slipped stealthily around the corner and down the stairs, escaping without even saying good bye, gasping in rejoice at my freedom (or perhaps as a result of the ensuing asthma attack I suffered because the dog). I then called my Liebschen (who came back to town for a couple days) and we met up at our usual spot in the neighborhood. It was his last night in town and I think the combination of that, with the reality of having to see my boss on Monday and knowing I would have to tell him what a wonderful shindig he threw, just made me sad.
When I woke up on Saturday it was such a beautiful day, sunny and actually cool, that I decided I was not in the mood for a pity party for one. So a few friends and I decided to go to the Land of Little Horses. Just over the Pennsylvania border, among the hallowed grounds of Gettysburg, lays this special place. For the low price of $14.95 (not including feed), a world of tiny farm animals (not just ponies) is yours for the taking. Upon entering the gates, little donkeys and stallions nuzzle at me, waiting to be patted. Goats and sheep, knee high, baaaah softly as they roam their pens. One particular tiny goat nearly fell asleep in my arms as I gave it a little rubdown, which was as good for me as it was for him. I was just about to pick him up and take him with me (he was barely an arm full), when my friends and I decided to wander farther down the little trail where we came upon an old timey western town, complete with a saloon, a church, and jail. All were mini sized (I assume for the children’s enjoyment, not the animals) but we stuffed ourselves into each edifice, not wanting to miss out. We meandered around smaller stalls, feeding some animals and running from others. We finally made our way back to the beginning, where I found my goat, the goat that I nearly put up my sleeve to take home with me, asleep under a tree. Like a scene from a classic pastoral, I sat against the trunk and began to pet his little head and cute little butt. I am not sure how long I was there for but my friends eventually came and tore me from my peaceful spot and away from my new pal.
As we decided where to head next, I bottled the afternoon, knowing that the next time I feel melancholy, a whiff of tiny horses is sure to do the trick.
