A Miniature Horse, Of Course

Today I spent the entire day reading an entire book. Nothing too intellectual, just a frothy novel about a champagne vineyard in France and three sisters who couldn't get along until a Gypsy showed up and straightened them out. The most intriguing character was their pet, a dwarf miniature horse named Cochon (French for pig). Having never heard of dwarf miniature horses (tinier, even, than a regular miniature horse), I immediately Googled them and learned they are sometimes put into service in the manner of seeing eye dogs. Fascinating. I always think about how fun it might (or might not) be to get a puppy, but I think I could definitely be the talk of the neighborhood with a dwarf miniature horse following me around on his little hooves.

Anyway, I needed to take it easy today because for the past week I've been kickin' it in Kentucky, gettin' buzzed on bourbon balls, shootin' the s$%! with a variety of family members and researchin' a new breed of cool kids who appear to be taking over the town: Hillbilly Hipsters (my own term, don't you love it?). I tell you what, they're a slightly standoffish crowd, and I pretty much feel like an uptight supernerd around them. I never did come up with quite the right outfit to properly infiltrate (my hair is waaaayyy too shiny for that scene), but I did manage to take some pretty revealing notes, which you won't find here since I'd rather work them into a story for a paying media outlet.

While in Louisville I had one breakfast at my favorite restaurant, Waffle House. Atmosphere-wise, that place has really taken it up a notch since the smoking ban kicked in. One new thing I discovered at Waffle House is that I don't need to order the double waffle, ever. It's just too much dough. I also noticed a line of fine print on the menu that I'd never seen before: "Thank you! You had a choice and you chose Waffle House. Please send comments to..." followed by an address. I always try to comment whenever possible, so I started thinking about what I might say. Basically, I'd be full of compliments. Good waffles. Crispy hash browns. Exceptionally friendly service. I like watching the line cooks work the grill. My only advice would be that Top 40 music should not be allowed on Waffle House juke boxes. Only oldies and country.

Meanwhile, I defy you all to lead me to a more outstanding fast food establishment than the Chick-fil-A at exit 172 off I-65 in Lafayette, Indiana. I mean, give me a break. It's fabulosity defined. Sparkling clean, with delectable waffle fries and employees who seem genuinely delighted to be serving up chicken sandwiches. It's also a great place to stock up on my favorite low-fat mayonnaise packets, which I carry in my purse at all times. They're not open on Sundays because the Chick-fil-A corporation believes in a day of rest, so I sometimes have to reschedule my drive to a Monday morning so I don't miss out.

P.S. The highlight of Christmas Day was when my sister Claire brought one of those spiky head massagers to dinner at my grandparents' house. In a rare episode of bonding among all factions of the family, we passed it up and down the 20-seat table, each person massaging the next one's head. Even Sammy, our golden retriever, got his head raked. It was a very warm moment.