When you paint your kitchen, you are given the opportunity to browse through the myriad things you have on your shelves and in your pantry that may be gathering dust, that may be so much garbage, that may no longer hold the same allure they had when you first got them.
Or you might find yourself even more weirdly attached to some bit of effluvia floating around your house.
This is one of those stories.
My standard, go-to joke whenever anyone…and I mean anyone, like old bosses or my parents or strangers in coffee shops…asks me what I want, is the classic, little girl response.
In the countless times I’ve pitched this idea to my boyfriend he has shot me down every time. Even though we could let the pony live in the basement. Even though I’m sure our cat would get hours of enjoyment majestically riding the pony through the neighborhood, heaping lordly disdain upon the other kittehs from his equine perch.
But George isn’t having it; he cuts the idea down every time. Poor Sammy the Cat.
Anyway. One Valentine’s Day a few years ago, we took a groovy romantic trip to a B&B in Gettysburg. We had a lovely time–outlet shopping, went on a haunted Gettysburg walking tour, ate a bunch of really good food. While we were up in the room with the lights low, enjoying a beautiful bottle of wine, George pulled out a gift bag. “Oh, honey,” I said, “you didn’t have to get me anything! We’re taking this great trip!” He said, “You’re wrong about that. I had to get you this.” I opened the gift bag and there it was.
He got me my pony!
I can never eat my pony.
Even if it is delicious Purity Chocolate.
The only feast I may have is with my eyes.