Thursday, January 18, 2007

Pre-Princess Aspirations

We had a party last night.

I had wine.

So much wine.

Especially for a Wednesday.

I am hurting, now, so you get a piece of what-IS-that-in-the-green-Tupperware?-in-the-back-of-the-fridge-memory leftover instead of a story about our party. (It was fun, though. It involved streamers and signs and me bossing everyone around with a glass of chardonnay in my hand.)

Before I got the awesomest fortune, ever, I still had dreams of making it to a romantic European country and living amongst the locals. Switzerland had been my target for a long time, between my parents having lived there before I was born and still talking about it fondly, and my talent for woo-ing Swiss border patrol with hard alcohol.

However, Switzerland is, like, THE hardest place to gain citizenship. The Swiss are very proud, the dumbest of whom speak only four languages absolutely fluently while the rest can prattle on in pretty much anything you can throw at them. (They LAUGHED at me when I told them I was majoring in English. “But.. haven’t you spoken English since you were a child? Dumbass?”)

The Swiss are also very aware of the fact that Switzerland is small, and is quite full of their own, over-educated, watch-making, chocolate-consuming kind. So they’re not really interested in letting any foreigners in, unless said foreigner can provide a valuable skill that a Swiss native can’t or won’t.

This is where I decided I would be a professional goat cheese maker.

See, the Swiss also have amazing cheese, and yet there are fewer and fewer artisan cheese makers left. Most of them having left the Hills That Are Alive for the City That Has Running Water and High-Def T.V. So I bought books on goat cheese making, and decided that I would head over there in Heidi-esque braids all, “Hi, I’m here to save your cheese industry.”

That never quite panned out, because none of the apartments I lived in were really into me bringing in some goats to herd and train. Even a pygmy. (I really did ask a landlord, once. Somehow I was convinced the balcony on my second floor condo was really all the fresh air a goat would need.)

So fate steered me clear of a life filled with yodeling by forcing me to live in goat-unfriendly apartments, right up until I got my fortune. Now I'm thinking I just need to pick up a “Norwegian for beginners” CD for my long-ass commute, and learn how to say, “Prince, darling, how do you feel about a few goats in the royal courtyard?”

1 comment:

Marcia said...

So, long story. But for some reason, my mother in law has called my husband my "Pygmy Goat Friend" for years. (And. Matt calls me his PGOAT. Prettiest Girl of All Time. But that's neither here nor there.)

I think it has something to do with her reading that racehorses had little pygmy goat friends to keep them company most of the time. Which I find to be damn funny.


Can we run off together and make goat cheese somewhere?