We held our second-annual Angie’s List Publication Department outing this past weekend. A group of about 12 of us headed to the country to my parents’ house to go camping and much more. Our department now tops 30 people, but many folks apparently prefer to stay within the city limits. Others didn’t want to subject us to their crankiness after a night in a damp, bug-infested tent on the hard ground. I don’t know why that doesn’t sound like fun to them. But, hey, I’m a country girl.
The group that did attend had a great time. We went jet skiing, and a couple of us bravely tested a waterslide my dad just installed at their lake. After a delicious pitch-in dinner, we hung out around the campfire and relaxed. The next morning, a few of us rode horses down to breakfast before everyone prepared to pack.
Surprisingly, the only mishap during our weekend getaway involved my dog driving the golf cart. Buddy refuses to lie in the grass, so he always curls up on the golf cart seat. I was helping my husband, Jeremy, set up our tent when all of a sudden the golf cart started rolling in our direction. Apparently, Buddy had disengaged the emergency brake. He sat, staring at us wide-eyed from behind the wheel.
The golf cart nearly ran me over. Kristy and her fiancé came running, but by that time I was already folded up in the tent. Jeremy stopped the moving cart with his bare hands, ripping blisters into his palms.
We all had a great laugh, though. We straightened out the contorted tent poles, re-set up our tent and made sure Buddy didn’t try to drive again. At least nothing or no one ended up in the lake!
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