The Land of Little Horses

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.

I Survived the Quake of 2010!!!

Last week, at approximately 5:04 am, I awoke inside of a steel drum. Except what I heard and felt was not the gentle ringing rhythms of breezy calypso, but the violent trill of a cavernous rocking. Though weary from my slumber, several thoughts flew through my head within seconds, including:

1. That a plane had landed in my front yard.

2. That my elderly parents had decided to tear down a load-bearing wall for the fun of it.

3. That an atomic bomb had been dropped downtown and what I felt was the sonic shock wave. I had this image of leaving my front door and seeing desolation all around me, though somehow my house remained standing. Of course, my neighbors turned into mutant zombies so I had to fight them off, which was a whole other nightmare.

4. That an earthquake had struck.

I quickly dismissed this as ridiculous, as at 5:04 am thoughts 2 and 3 seemed more reasonable. Of course, part of me hoped for 1 and 4 (not really 3) because I totally could have gotten out of work for that. I must have fallen back asleep quite quickly, as before I knew it, my alarm rang 7am and it was time for me to get up and start my day. I wearily climbed out of my bed, feeling strange but not sure why. I left my house 30 minutes later, still unsure sure of the source of my uneasiness. While waiting for the bus, my neighbor Susan asked, “did you feel it?” I looked at her confused. “Feel what?” I responded. “The earthquake, it was on the news!” she answered. Suddenly it all came rushing back. When I woke up to get ready for work, I had completely forgotten about my previous 5:04 wake up call, and chalked up my disquiet to bad dreams. “Heard about it?!” I told Susan excitedly, “I FELT it!” For the rest of the day, I read others’ accounts and talked about it with my friends at lunch excitedly.

The next evening I spoke with my good friend Meredith, who recently moved back to California. I asked if she had heard about the earthquake and she said yes. I regaled her with my adventures, telling her it was pretty scary, and at a magnitude of 3.7, nothing to shake a stick at. “3.7?” she repeated, “how cute.”

Mein Liebschen

Over the past three months I have spent an inordinate amount of time with a German who has (Viennese) waltzed his way into my heart. While our relationship was strictly and (for me) painfully plutonic, I have begun to consider the many advantages of partnering up with a foreigner. Of course, there are a few downsides, especially when dealing with a German. During this unintended fact finding mission, I have discovered the following

1. I have a fear of Aryan babies. If I were to mate and create these creatures, I fear I would resemble an evil dark sorcerer with my Children of the Corn brood, smiling stiffly in our Sears family portraits. No amount of matching khakis or blue denim shirts in a background featuring fields of daises can change that. Plus, I just don’t know if I will be able to nurse a blond. Is that harsh?

2. Being with a foreigner is like traveling back in time. Not only is the music ten years older, but you always get a second chance when you speak. This is because he /she usually will not understand you the first time. You can change your intention, inflection, or reword a joke if, upon further consideration, you think there is a possibility it may fall flat.

3. In a pinch, you can make shit up.

4. In a pinch, if he/she does something awkward or uncouth, you can just blame it on cultural differences.

5. In a pinch, if he/she says something embarrassing, you can blame it on the language barrier.

6. You always feel smart when you are able to answer his/her questions on American history, culture, or the definition of particular words.

7. If you don’t know the answer, telling him/her to look it up is a great option, as you can claim it is the only true way to learn.

8. Umlauts can be ARE sexy.

9. Wurst, and other sausage meats can be a great conversation starter among new friends.

10. There is no such thing as a sexy pair of socks. Even when paired with a fine leather open toed sandal.

11. Black clothing does not necessarily mean he/she is in mourning. It may just be his/her go to color.

12. Arrested Development brings (sarcastic) cultures together.

13. While the Internet is prevalent in most countries, that does not meant he/she will know what “Sprockets” is.

14. Just because he/she quotes Woody Allen does not mean he/she understands him.

15. Discotheques are not just for dancing

16. It is always sad when he/she waves “Auf Wiedersehen.”.

The man in front of me at Whole Foods put two items on the belt to purchase: a half gallon of ice cream and bottle of red wine. I nearly jumped in his basket, hoping he would take me home....

On a side note, to those of you celebrating, I wish you a Happy New (Fiscal) Year.

Now a (brief) sneak peak of next months entry: Summer of my German Scholar

A man has come into my life, whom I will refer to from now on as Mein Liebschen....more to come.

Magic in the Air

I fell in love today. With a man whose name (I think) is Barry. Barry (?) is a magician. Well, he is not just a magician; he owns his own magic shop on the main drag in my town. Now, how a magic shop stays open during a recession is a question for another time, but a few friends and I were passing by and, having always been curious about the store, we decided to wander in and spend a few minutes. As we climbed the dimly lit stairwell covered in portraits of Houdini (with eyes that followed you), hanging (plastic) chandeliers, and a wide array of handcuffs, candelabra, and other spooky “magicy” things, we found ourselves in a large, slightly dusty room with display cases all around of videos, card decks, trick gum, chattering teeth, and more top hats than in a Fred Astaire picture.

As my friends as I pointed and giggled at the various gags around the store, the magician in question invited us to his counter to watch him perform some tricks. For 30 minutes we were mesmerized by his skills as we chose cards, held collapsible wands, and had balls multiply in our hands. However, every time I looked into Barry’s (?) soft brown eyes, the most magical thing of all happened. I turned to metaphoric stone.

Unfortunately, there was an odd gentleman who ingratiated himself in our little group during the impromptu show. He had a penchant for invading personal space and generally creeping everyone out. This was obvious after knowing him for several seconds. When I joked about sawing my friend Molly in half vertically, the creepy man told me to be careful what I wished for because it could happen. Hmm, well, creepster I don’t think the chance of my friend actually being sawed in half is likely, but the comment had broken the spell, and I could almost hear the pixie dust of the magic in the air fade and fall to the ground.

We browsed a bit longer at the symbol playing monkeys, plastic banana peels, and stink bombs before leaving the store.

Gas to get to the magic store? $2.00

Trick gum? $5 a pack

Falling in love with a magician and having fantasies of being his assistant? Priceless.

Whatchu Lookin' at?

Last week, I woke up to find that a zit the size of a quarter had erupted on my forehead. My attempts to cover it with mascara and pretend it was a third eye failed, so I just gazed at the ground while I talked to people and hoped that somehow no one would not notice the Post-it size blemish staring back at them.

While at work, I ran into a colleague of mine and as we chatted, I noticed her focus shift to my enormous, mountain sized pimple. She proceeded to tell me that “I had something on my face.” I responded that yes, I knew there was something on my face and quickly changed the subject. She continued, insisting that I had something on my face, as though I did not believe her. At that point, I saw a finger move towards me, which I ducked. Apparently this woman really wanted to touch whatever it was (HELLO A PIMPLE, ever had one??) that had made its home on my forehead. I shrugged away from her, and just lied; telling her that I had banged my head and it left a mark. She then launched into a 5 minute tirade on head injuries.

At this point, it was only 8:45 am.

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